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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

« Somebody cut out your eyes, you refuse to see.
Ah, somebody cut out your heart, you refuse to feel.
And you live in a shell, 
you create your own hell,
you live in the past and talk about war.
And you dig your own grave, yeah.
But it's a life you can save,
So stop getting fast, it's not gonna happen.
And you'll cry but you'll never fall, no, no, no.
You're building a wall,
Gotta break it down, start again.
No, no, no, it won't happen to us.
We've lived our lives, basically we've been good men.
So stop talking of war,
'Cause you know we've heard it all before,
Why don't you go out there and do something useful?
Oh, listen to the man in the liquor store,
He yelling “anybody want to drink before the war?” »

     Sinead O’Connor, Drink Before the War (1997).

Notes: These images were created with AI. As you can see, I'm not very good at Photoshop; in my head, the height difference between Sandor and Lyra is much bigger (Lyra's head should reach his mid-chest, below his shoulder), and Sandor is much more muscular and less “conventionally attractive”. Not ugly, but not as chad-like (lol) as this AI-created man either. At the very least, he’s scarier. Lyra looks pretty right; she just doesn't have a dimple in her chin and her jaw is a little less square. Also, her eyes are more hooded, like Emma D'Arcy's (Rhaenyra's actress). As for her physique, just imagine a young Natalie Portman. Adult!Lyra looks a little like Katie McGrath.

── 𝓛𝔂𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓪 ──
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓀𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶 𝒷𝒶𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝒹.

ℒyra set forth at daybreak, this morning. There are a very few perks of being a bastard girl, and one of these was not necessarily having to take Septa Mordane's sewing and etiquette classes, much to Arya's envy. She still has to take womanly arts classes, despite being a Snow, but Septa Mordane's priority was to educate the Stark girls. She wasn't as good at needlework as Sansa anyway, and whenever she could she would sneak out, join Jon, Robb and Theon, and practice archery or horse riding with them.
Another perk of being a bastard was that she often went unnoticed, or rather, most people didn't care where she went or what she did. Especially Lady Catelyn. The more Lyra and Jon were far away from her children, the happier Catelyn was. Arya also often ran away from Septa Mordane, but when that happened it was literally a manhunt (or a ladyhunt?), with Lady Catelyn at the very lead, looking for her daughter.

Summer was ending, and that morning was cool despite the clear sky. Today it would be the first time her little half-brother Bran would see the King’s justice: apparently, a man from the Night's Watch had deserted, and the penalty for that is death sentence. Robb said that this man then joined Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall. Lyra had also never witnessed a beheading before, so she had insisted with her lord father and he finally accepted. After all, Jon, Robb and Theon had witnessed plenty of beheadings, so why not her? Also, Bran is seven, and she’s four and ten.
     « You’re a woman. » Theon told her laughing two days prior. «You might faint at the sight of a rolling head. »
     « I won’t faint! I can use a bow almost better than you, a little blood won't scare me. » Lyra answered him, as Theon trained her in the courtyard of Winterfell.
     « You can't use a bow half as well as me, Snow. And a severed head is not “a little blood”. » Theon said to her, laughing.

This was not true, tho. Since Lyra had received her new custom-made bow from Theon a few months ago for her fourteenth nameday, she had improved greatly in archery. Now, she even succeeded in horseback archery. She still remembers that afternoon of roughly seven or eight moon cycles ago: with the training bow, she didn't always hit the target. And Theon and Robb would laugh every time she made a mistake.
     « This is just because this bow is too big. I'll have Mikken make one for me, then we'll see! »
     « Mikken is a blacksmith, not a fletcher. He doesn't know how to make bows. » Theon said laughing.
     « Yes, he can, I've seen him! »
     « But not well. I'll make one for you, my Lady…» Theon said mockingly. « I promise. How tall are you? Four feet and a horseshoe? A children's bow might work…» Theon laughed, and so did Robb next to him as he trained against a dummy: apparently, he was eavesdropping. Lyra playfully hit Theon.
     « I'm almost five feet and two inches, thank you very much, » Lyra said frowning with her arms folded. She doesn’t like being short. If she hadn't been short, she'd have had a better reach to be good with the longsword as well. Also, she wouldn't have needed a smaller custom bow.

And then, Theon did it. A tenday later, for her and Jon’s nameday, Theon showed up with a recurve bow of yew wood, excellently made and painted dark with silver details. He also gave her a dark-leather quiver full of cedar arrows with dark goose feathers.
     « I have to admit that Mikken helped me. But only with the silver details! »
Lyra was thrilled and gave him a big hug while standing on tiptoes. Theon was tall and lean, with dark hair and dark eyes, a handsome fella of nineteen. However, he was particularly promiscuous, and Lyra always avoided accepting his ridiculous advances. They practiced with the new bow all afternoon in the courtyard.
     « What did I tell you, Greyjoy? I'm much better with this bow. » 

On her nameday she also received a dagger from her brothers Jon and Robb, with a dark wood hilt and silver details, to match the bow. The silver pommel was shaped like a direwolf's head, and the scabbard was also made by dark leather like Theon's quiver. The blade of the dagger was curved, fine and elegant but certainly lethal. It was beautiful. That day, she had also gift Jon a very similar dagger (with a straight blade, and a direwolf engraved on the pommel), and they both laughed, thinking about the blacksmith Mikken who had to silently fabricate two similar gifts. Her father Eddard, with the help of the expert hands of Sansa and Septa Mordane, gifted her a dress: it was sage-green colored, with silver thread details. It had long sleeves and a rounded neckline, tight at the waist and soft at the hips. The sleeves joined to form a fabric collar from which hung a jade jewel.
     « It's beautiful, thank you, father. And thank you, Sansa. » She hugged them both.
     « It's a nice color. It matches the green of your eyes, Lyarra. »  her father replied softly.

Lyra, like Jon and Arya, looks a lot like their father Ned Stark: she has long, wavy dark hair, a bit messy. Her eyes are gray-green, hooded and almond-shaped, slightly upturned, and her face is oval almost long-y. Her nose is straight, with a little bump and the nosetip slightly upwards. Her lips are full and plump. Her body is thin and lithe, with little breasts but fairly broad and muscular shoulders (for being skinny). Uncle Benjen once told her that she looks like her aunt Lyanna when she was young. 
     « You also have her temperament. » he added.
     « If you cut your hair you'd look like a little boy. » Theon always teased her.
But Theon was actually a flirt, Lyra was not stupid and noticed the way he looked at her. Now that she was growing up, he also started looking at Sansa. Lyra has a somewhat wild beauty, unlike her half-sister Sansa: she is elegant and refined, a little Catelyn Tully, with long auburn hair and doe-like blue eyes, a classic beauty that hypnotizes most men and that everyone likes. At one and ten, Sansa was as tall as Lyra (if not more) but, unlike her, Sansa would still grow. She would surely become as tall as her mother Catelyn. Arya was a mini-Lyra, even more boyish-looking, with shaggy hair, a longer face and thinner lips than hers, and the typical Stark gray eyes. Jon also has grey eyes; Lyra wondered if she got the green in her eyes from their mother.

As always, Ned was very evasive about Jon and Lyra’s mother. It is only known that he returned to Riverrun after the war with the newborn twins, while poor Catelyn Tully was still nursing little Robb, who was just a few moon cycles older than Lyra and Jon. Ned never wanted to answer any questions of any kind. Not from her, not from Jon, not from Catelyn, not from uncle Benjen, not from Maester Luwin or anyone else. Her father was an honorable man, so he was probably ashamed of what he had done during the War and didn't want to talk about it. Many men have bastard children, especially when they are away from their wives for long periods of time. King Robert himself has bastard children, from what she had heard. Most of them, however, never had the audacity to bring them home and raise them alongside their own legitimate children. 

On the other hand, Old Nan had several stories to tell. « Lyarra Stark was the mother of Lord Eddard and your uncle Benjen, your grandmother. She died years before you were born. Robb, when you were two or three, couldn't say your name well, so you've been Lyra ever since. »
     “My father named me after his mother and Jon after his guardian and friend from the Vale, Jon Arryn. Kind of controversial names, a bit too important for two bastards. I understand why Catelyn is still annoyed by us to this day.” Lyra thought.

She and Jon are two lucky bastards. They have all the comforts and education of their legitimate brothers; not the same rights, of course, but as a woman, it was better that way. She didn't envy Arya and Sansa and their being raised to be wife-materials. She would too get married one day, but if she was lucky enough she could at least decide whom to marry, Ned permitting. Still, being a Snow, she could not give her father any strategic alliance from a marriage. But she would have a house, perhaps a comfortable place, the home of a minor lord or a rich merchant. For Jon, her 40-minutes-older twin, however, it was different. He'd probably never inherit anything, nor would he'll have a noble bride. Maybe he'd become a knight, who knows. Nevertheless, the friendly rivalry between him and Robb was obvious. Even Theon Greyjoy, her father's hostage and ward, would one day have more rights than Jon as the eldest son of Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands.

That morning Lyra dressed in a simple dark wool tunic and a sleeveless short leather jerkin with brown leather trousers, and a grey cape and leather gloves to protect herself against the cool morning wind. She took her recurve bow and her quiver with her, along with her dagger, after which she headed to the stables to saddle her mare.
Moonmare was a lithe, light gray palfrey, with dark gray patches and spots here and there that made her literally look like the surface of the moon. She was a spoiled, though good, mare. She wanted the juiciest apples and carrots, and she loved to be groomed daily. In the stable she was the queen, especially of the stallions. But she was also strong and fast, though she hated going out in the cold. “And winter is coming…” thought Lyra as she petted Moonmare.
     « Are you here already? You must be really excited to see heads rolling in the snow, Snow. » Theon told her, laughing as he entered the stable with Robb and Jon, about to saddle their horses. 
Jon rolled his eyes and walked over to his sister. « You can always not come with us if you don’t want to, sister. It won't be a pretty sight. »
Lyra laughed. « Then you'll have to hold my hand through the whole thing, Jon. » Jon laughed, and helped her into the saddle.

About twenty men rode out from Winterfell, including Lord Eddard Stark, Jon, Robb, Theon, Lyra, and little Bran on his pony. Lyra was the only female. Over their heads flapped the banner of the Starks of Winterfell. Arya watched them from the window, frowning; Ned had forbidden her to attend the day before. 
     « You're still too young, Arya. » 
     « But Bran and Lyra are coming to watch! » 
     « Bran must grow into a man, and Lyarra is four and ten. She’s a grown woman. » 
Arya angrily rose from the table screaming « But I’m nine! And Bran is just seven! », leaving half her dinner on her plate. Septa Mordane and Catelyn scolded her, but Ned told them to let her go. Sansa and Jeyne Poole watched Arya walking away with puzzled looks.
     « I can’t see what's funny about a beheading, my sister has terrible taste as usual. » Sansa said. Jeyne chuckled.

After dinner, Lyra found Arya slashing a dummy in the courtyard.
     « I'm sorry, Arya. » Lyra told her. « If I may cheer you up, I honestly think our father will take you with him well before your four and ten nameday, though. You're hard headed, and he can't stand hearing you anymore. » Arya continued to slash at the dummy. 
     « I wish I was born a bastard like you and Jon. » Arya said, without diverting attention from the dummy. « You can train with your sword and bow with our brothers and Theon while I have to learn how to sew and how to dance with Sansa, Jeyne, and that stupid Septa. » 
Lyra smiled. « Well, not always, cutiepie. I also have to take lessons from Septa Mordane and Maester Luwin, even if I’m not a legitimate daughter. Besides, you sometimes don't care about the rules too and come with us to train in the courtyard anyway. » 
Arya turned. « Yes, until my mother finds me and takes me back to the Septa. » 
Lyra laughed. « Of course, and when Lady Catelyn sees me with you, she takes me back to the Septa, too. I much prefer Maester Luwin’s lessons, but apparently learning how to sew is vital for us girls... » 
Arya and Lyra ended the evening laughing and with practice swords in their hands, sweaty and bruised thanks to Jon, Bran, little Rickon and Robb who joined them after hearing the noise.

The man awaiting the King's justice was a deserter Brother in Black, old and scrawny and not much taller than Robb. He had lost both ears and a finger to frostbite. At one point Lord Stark gave a command, and two of his guardsmen carried the deserter to the centre of the square, placing his head on the ironwood stump. Lord Eddard dismounted and his ward Theon Greyjoy brought forth the longsword, Ice, Ned’s Valyrian steel, spell-forged and as dark as smoke. Her father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the Captain of his Household Guard. He took Ice with both hands and said:
     « In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die. »
Jon moves closer to Bran. « Keep the pony well in hand. » he whispered. « And don’t look away. Father will know if you do. » 
Bran kept his pony well in hand, and did not look away. So did Lyra.

Their father took off the man’s head in a single stroke. Blood sprayed out across the snow, and one of the horses reared and had to be restrained to keep from bolting. Bran could not take his eyes from the blood, and Lyra suddenly wondered why she had wanted to take part on this trip. Sewing had never seemed so much fun until now. Lyra had seen several deaths in her life, but they were “just” corpses; seeing the life suddenly disappear from a person's eyes and blood spraying everywhere was something else entirely. The head bounced off a thick root and rolled near Greyjoy’s feet: he laughed, put his boot on the head, and kicked it away.
     « Ass. » Jon muttered, low enough so Greyjoy did not hear.
     « Ass. » Lyra said, glaring at Theon. Greyjoy heard her, bursting out laughing.
Jon put a hand on Bran’s shoulder. « You did well. » Then, he looked at Lyra. « You did well, too. I didn't even have to hold your hand. » They both smiled. 

It seemed colder on the long ride back to Winterfell, and Lyra pulled her cape tighter around her, pulling up her hood to keep her ears warm. Lyra rode with her brothers, well ahead of the main party. 
     « The deserter died bravely. He had courage, at the least. » Robb said. He was big and broad and growing every day, with his mother’s fair skin, auburn hair and blue eyes.
     « No, » Jon said quietly. « It was not courage; this one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark. »
Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black. Lyra and Jon were of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where their half-brother was strong and fast.
Lyra remained silent, remembering nothing in particular except the expression the man had when he died. Bran was silent on his pony, too. Lyra rode up beside him and put a hand on his shoulder, as if to console him. Bran smiled shyly.
     « The Others take his eyes, » Robb swore. « He died well. Race to the bridge? »
     « Done. » Jon said, kicking his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed. Lyra joined the race, shouting, « Hey! Wait for me! », and they galloped down the trail, Robb laughing and hooting, Jon silent and intent and Lyra amused, complaining about the unexpected race start. Bran, on his pony, did not try to follow them. They galloped for a while, until they reached the bridge and slowed to a trot. Jon won, of course, having started first. Lyra arrived last.
     « I only had a half-second advantage, stop making excuses, you two. » Jon said, smiling. Robb and Lyra continued to protest, laughing.
     « Hey! Did you hear that? » Robb said at one point.
     « Robb, if this is a joke, I-...» Lyra began to say.
But then she and Jon heard it too: whimpers? Cries? Whines? They couldn't quite make out what.
     « It sounds like it's coming from the riverbanks. » Jon said. 

They dismounted, Robb and Jon holding their swords and Lyra taking her bow. Then, they found it. Half-buried in bloodstain snow, a huge wolf slumped in death, bigger than Bran’s pony, twice the size of the largest hound in their father’s kennel. Near the giant wolf, little furballs cried in search of milk from their dead mother.
     « Is this a…» Lyra asked. 
     « Direwolf, yes. » Jon said. « I'm going to warn our father, it's unusual to find them south of the Wall. » Jon concluded, heading towards the horses. 
Robb, in the meantime, walked over to the pups and gently picked one up: the pup was a tiny ball of grey-black fur, its eyes still closed. It nuzzled blindly against Robb’s chest, searching for milk among his leathers, making a sad little whimpering sound.
     « Oh, poor thing! Look at him, he's hungry! » Lyra took the puppy from Robb's arms and cuddled him. 
     « Hold him for a moment and warm him up, I'll try to understand what their mother died of. » Robb said.
Soon after, Jon and their father joined them, along with the entire contingent. Some horses were frightened at the sight of the direwolf, and Jory Cassel drew his sword.
     « Robb! Lyra! Get away from there! »
     « She can't hurt anyone. She's dead, Jory. » Robb said. Then, they all dismounted by their horses.
     « What in the seven hells is this? » Greyjoy was saying.
     « A wolf. » Robb said to him.
     « A freak! Look at the size of him. » Greyjoy said.
     « Her. » Lyra corrected him.
    « It’s no freak. » Jon said calmly. « That’s a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind. »
Theon Greyjoy then said, « There’s not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years. »
     « I see one now. » Jon said. Lyra giggled at her brother’s sassy response. In the meantime, Bran had come closer to look at the pup in her arms. 
    « You can touch him, Bran. » she told him. Bran gave the pup a quick nervous stroke. 
     « Here you go, » Jon put a second pup into Bran's arms. « there are five of them. » Bran smiled at the pup in his arms.

Meanwhile, the discussion continued. Apparently the direwolf had died from something stuck in her throat. Jory said he had heard that direwolves could give birth while already dead.
     « Born with the dead, worse luck. » said a man.
     « It doesn't matter, they be dead soon enough too, » said Hullen, « it be a mercy to kill them. »
     « The sooner the better. » Theon Greyjoy agreed. He drew his sword. « Give me the beast, Bran. »
     « No! » Lyra and Bran shouted in chorus.
     « It’s mine! » Bran cried out fiercely. 
     « If you even try to touch one of the puppies, Theon, I swear...- » Lyra said with venom in her voice.
     « Put away your sword, Greyjoy. We will keep these pups. » Robb said. For a moment he sounded as commanding as their father, like the Lord he would someday be. 
     « Lord Stark, » Jon said to their father. « There are five pups, three males and two females. »
     « What of it, Jon? » Ned replied, doubtful.
     « You have five trueborn children, three sons and two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your house. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord. » Jon said. Lyra saw their father’s face change, and saw the other men exchange glances. She noticed Bran smiling by himself. 
     « You want no pup for yourself, Jon? » Ned asked softly. « And what about you, Lyra? » Ned turned around, looking at her.
     « The direwolf graces the banner of House Stark, » Jon pointed out. « Lyra and I are no Starks, father. » Lyra nodded in agreement.

After several promises of care, they continued on their way with the five direwolf pups in their arms. When they reached the bridge to mount their horses, however, Jon heard another noise and returned at the direwolf's corpse. He knelt down beside the corpse, searching for something in the snow. A moment later he was walking back towards them.
     « They must have crawled away from the others. » Jon said.
    « Or been driven away. » their father said, looking at the sixth and at the seventh pups. 
Their fur was white, while the rest of the litter was grey. The eyes of one of the pups were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. The other pup was still blind, like the other pups of the litter.
Jon handed Lyra one of the pups, the one still blind. « A male and a female. » He said.
     « Two albinos, that’s curious. And rare. » Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. « These two will die even faster than the others. »
Jon Snow gave his father’s ward a long, chilling look. « I think not, Greyjoy. » He said. «These two belongs to Lyra and me. »

Lyra's direwolf was the smallest of the litter, while Jon's was the biggest. Her pup was the last to open her eyes: they were a very pale color, like a pink/lilac/ice blue, almost white and translucent.
    “I will call you Meraxes, after the pale she-dragon of Queen Rhaenys Targaryen during Aegon's Conquest.”  Lyra thought as she fed her, lookin’ at her pale eyes and her white fur. The direwolf pups were growing bigger every day. And Meraxes seemed to be quite fond of Ghost, Jon’s direwolf: when she wasn't following Lyra, she was following him. “Maybe she sees Ghost as a protector. After all, they were close together when Jon found them, far away from their mother and the other pups.”
All of her siblings except Bran had named their pups: Robb had named his Grey Wind, Sansa had named her Lady, Arya had named her Nymeria, and little Rickon had named his Shaggydog.
The direwolves were very much like their masters: Shaggydog and Nymeria were the wildest (especially Shaggydog), while Lady was well-mannered, just like Sansa. Grey Wind was obedient and tenacious, while Ghost was shy and silent. Meraxes was curious and, for a direwolf, even friendly. If she liked you. Ghost seemed to check on her often, wherever she went.
     “They're attached, like Jon and I are. Especially when we were kids, we'd finish each other's sentences. It was always me and Jon together, and very often Robb with us. But Robb didn't understand what it was like to be a bastard. Now we're grown up, and even Jon doesn't understand what it's like to be a bastard girl.” Lyra thought. 

Sometimes she can hear the comments, mostly made by men: bastards were born from lust, so bastard girls (like virgins, but they are quite expensive) were the most required in brothels. That's what her friend Fjona told her, and she's a prostitute, so she surely must know.
Every now and then, some evenings, Lyra would put on a cape and sneak out of Winterfell, heading for the village beyond Winterfell's walls called Winter Town. She would stand under the window of the brothel where Fjona worked, and throw pebbles at the glass. After a while, Fjona would finish work, come downstairs, and they would go to the tavern “the Smoking Log” for a drink. Those were the evenings when she felt truly free, when she ended the evening tipsy and with tears in her eyes from laughing. Sometimes, other people would join in, all younglings: sons of farmers, daughters of shepherds, sons of blacksmiths and weavers, young squires, other whores. They drank, gossiped and played dices and cards.

Those evenings were Lyra's secret; the only one who knew about them was Jon, who followed her in secret one evening. 
     « Don't tell our father, please Jon. He wouldn't accept it, he'd tell me it's dangerous. He wouldn't let me see Fjona anymore. She’s my best friend. »
     « Okay, I won't tell him anything. But please, be careful. » Jon replied, frowning. Jon had rarely joined the gatherings, but when he does, he was very out of place. Jon is shy and quiet, and tends to be very reserved. Which is a shame, as his sarcastic comments are often funny. Lyra also realized that Jon didn't particularly enjoy her friends, especially Fjona.
     « I don't understand why you hang out with whores. » he told her one evening as they were walking back to Winterfell. Lyra stopped and took his hands.
     « Jon, you need to realize that we're both lucky. Most bastards end up doing that, or ends up being farmers, or even criminals. Fjona is a good person, very nice. She may be a little simple, she doesn’t have an education nor a family, but I really enjoy her company. She keeps me entertained, and she also keeps the boys in line. Last week, a couple of men followed us out of the tavern, so she insulted them and they ran away. She’s a girls’ girl. »
     « You were followed by men?! As a brother, I am the one who forbids you to go out. Our father would be right, it is too dangerous. »
     « Don't worry, I always have the dagger with me. » Lyra winked at him, showing him the sheath attached to her belt.
     « And maybe they have one too. And they're men, bigger and stronger than you. » Jon said, worried. « You really are a fool sometimes. Don't you have enough fun with us, me and Robb and Arya and even Theon and Sansa, safe in Winterfell? »
     « Of course I have fun with you, and I love you. I love Winterfell. But I also like going out, meeting new people, seeing what the world is really like. One day, I'll marry a man and I’ll leave home, and none of you will always be there to protect me. Besides, Theon often leaves Winterfell too, as you well know... »
     « Theon is a man and he knows how to fight. He doesn't risk rape; at most, he might risk a fight. But he knows how to defend himself. »
     « I know how to defend myself too! And so does Fjona. And for the most part, we are not alone; there are also our other friends with us. »
     « Maybe you can defend yourself against one person, yes, and maybe you can do it while you are with your friends. But what if a man – or more than one – follows you on your way back to Winterfell, while you are alone? What would you do? » 

Jon was right. They walked back in silence. Her brother was visibly worried, so Lyra's night trips at the village became much rarer.
Since she had Meraxes, however, she had started to go out of the castle more often again. “I know that you would protect me, Meraxes, but I also know that you can behave well among people.” Some of her friends were afraid of the direwolf, even Fjona at first. Until she realized that Meraxes liked her, so Fjona got used to her presence. In any case, since Meraxes was there, no stranger had approached to talk to her or flirt. And no one tried to follow her.
For now, Meraxes looked like a simple white wolfdog in the dark of the evening, with her gray-fur harness and leather leash. When she grows up, though... well, surely the villagers would recognize her, an albino direwolf does not go unnoticed. She would have to think of another method of self-defense by then.

     « Meraxes, uh? » Maester Luwin asked her one afternoon, during one of their lessons. « What can you tell me about the she-dragon Meraxes? »
     « She was ridden by Queen Rhaenys Targaryen during Aegon's Conquest, alongside King Aegon the Conqueror's Balerion and their sister Queen Visenya's Vhagar. Meraxes was named for one of the gods of Old Valyria. »
Maester Luwin nodded at her. « That’s correct. How did she die? »
Lyra answered him promptly. « She died in 10 AC at Hellholt, during the First Dornish War. An iron bolt from a scorpion went through her eye, and the dragon and Rhaenys fell from the sky. They both perished. »
Maester Luwin gave her a nod of approval, then changed the subject. « House Velaryon: describe me their coat-of-arms and their motto. »
     « Their coat-of-arms depict a silver seahorse on sea-green background. Their motto is “The Old, the True, the Brave”. »
     « That is correct, lady Lyra. » Maester Luwin turned to Robb. « Robb, tell me about the Dance of Dragons. To whom did the Velaryons ally themselves with? »

Ever since they had received word that King Robert Baratheon – along with his royal contingent – was heading to Winterfell, Lord Eddard Stark had decided that all his sons and daughters (even little Rickon, much to his displease) should do a refresh course with Maester Luwin on the history of all the houses south of the Neck.
Lyra really enjoyed Maester Luwin's lessons. In addition to the history of Westeros and Essos, he had taught her a few words of Valyrian; he had taught her how to read and how to write, how to do calculations. He had also taught her how to disinfect and sew a wound, and the various medicinal properties of different herbs. He told her about the history of the Wall, about Bran the Builder, about Nymeria and the Rhyonar, about the founding of the Free City of Braavos and about the mysterious Asshai of the Shadows. He instructed her about the old and new gods, about the Red God and the Many-Faced God, and the Doom of Valyria. If only women had been allowed, Lyra would have loved to go to the Citadel of Oldtown and become a maester.
Septa Mordane's lessons were more boring and rigorous, in her opinion. She taught her how to sew and embroider, how to dance; she taught her the good manners and how to speak properly to the Lords and to the Ladies. She instructed her on her future duties as a wife. Whenever the Septa was in a good mood, they'd read novels, stories of Knights and sang songs. Lyra really felt like a real Lady, all she needed at that point was the “Stark” family-name.

When she wasn't practicing archery, swordsmanship, and riding with her siblings, Arya, and Ser Rodrik Cassel (the Master-of-Arms at Winterfell), Lyra loved going to the library to read. Her favorite stories were those with dragons: how much she wished she had one! Unfortunately, they had been extinct for at least 150 years. By now, all that remains ofthe dragons are their skulls, very few eggs that had been petrified for decades around the world, and the stories in the books.
“Many futile attempts were made to revive dragons. Aegon III Targaryen “the Dragonbane” had nine mages cross the narrow sea to use their magics in attempt to hatch remaining dragon eggs. The pious King Baelor I Targaryen attempted to hatch his egg by praying over it. Aegon IV Targaryen ordered pyromancers to build seven mechanical “dragons” that shot jets of wildfire. Hundreds of men died in a failed attempt to use them to invade Dorne. Prince Aerion Targaryen drank wildfire, believing it would transform him into a dragon, but only died screaming. The tragedy of Summerhall resulted from the attempt of King Aegon V Targaryen to hatch dragon eggs. King Aerys II Targaryen attempted to hatch dragons from eggs found in the depths of Dragonstone, to no result. He may have believed his attempt to immolate King's Landing would transform him into a dragon.” That's what the books “The Dance of the Dragons, A True Telling” by Grand Maester Munkun and “The Death of Dragons” by Maester Thomax said about them.

     “If only Ser Criston Cole, Alicent and Otto Hightower had minded their own business...” Lyra thought. “But first of all: if only they had chosen Rhaenys Targaryen instead of Viserys as Queen, as was her birth right... Rather than have a woman in command, men prefer to start a war and extinguish dragons.” In Dorne, men and women have equal rights: whoever was the firstborn – female or male – would inherit the according titles. And women in Dorne could fight, too. Some women in the North also can fight, but the right of succession always go to the first-born male. In the Reach, the Stormlands, the Vale, the Westerlands and the Crownlands, however, the idea of women knowing how to wield a sword or a bow is considered repugnant and unnatural.
Bastards were excluded everywhere except in Dorne. The Red Viper has only bastard daughters, and they are all welcome at Prince Doran Martell's court. “I should have been born in Dorne.” Lyra thought. “It is absurd that dornians are considered savages. Even among the Free People, women can fight and decide for themselves.”

By now she had read and reread all the books about dragons that they had in the Library Tower of Winterfell, so she had moved on to read the medical books. Maester Luwin had been kind enough to feed her curiosity and lend her some of his books, as well as teach her how to stitch and dress a wound, and how to stabilize a fracture. He also gave her advice on how to manage pain and fever.
     « Poppy milk is not always available, and in any case, it is quite expensive, » Maester Luwin told her one day. « There are several plants in nature that could help the sick to fall asleep and not feel pain under medical procedures. But you have to be very careful and measure the quantities based on the weight and the sex of the patient, otherwise you risk to kill them in their sleep. Here, take this book: it's about medicinal plants. » Lyra would probably never have to cure any sick person; besides, she would not have been able to distinguish one plant from another (Maester Luwin’s book literally had several drawings of most of the plants, but memory wasn’t her strong suit). However, she was a curious girl, and medicine was almost as interesting as dragons.

Preparations for the arrival of King Robert and his large royal contingent had been going on for at least three weeks. 
     « Queen Cersei and her children are traveling in a grand royal carriage, so it will take them longer than expected to reach Winterfell. » Ned told them. « That's a good thing. It will give us more time to lay aside supplies and prepare their quarters. » 
Meanwhile, Lyra, Sansa, Jeyne Poole and Arya were busy with Septa Mordane sewing attires suitable for the arrival of the King, the Queen and Prince Joffrey, Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen.
     « I wonder if Prince Joffrey is as handsome as they say. People say he looks a lot like his mother, Queen Cersei Lannister. » Sansa said as she stitched her dress beautifully. 
     « I've heard he looks a lot like his uncle Ser Jaime when he was young. » Jeyne replied. Sansa blushed. Every woman in Westeros has heard of the Kingslayer's attractiveness.
     « Do you think the Prince will notice me? » Sansa asked.
     « How could he not notice you, » Lyra replied. « You’re becoming a very beautiful and refined little woman. » Sansa smiled at her words.
Arya frowned at them, trying to fix the crooked stitches on her dress. « He's definitely going to be an arrogant idiot. »
     « Arya! » Septa Mordane scolded her. « That's no way to speak for a proper Lady! And mind your stitches, they're all crooked. How many times do I have to tell you how to do them? » Then, Septa Mordane turned to Lyra. « Your stitches are decent, Lyarra, but I need to remind you that this dress will be worn when we’ll welcome the Royal contingent. You may not be the legitimate daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, but a minimum of elegance is expected even from you. Lady Sansa, Jeyne, your dresses are becoming splendid as usual. » 
Arya rolled her eyes and continued to wrestle with her needle.

Preparations for the King's arrival went on for nearly two months before his arrive. In the meantime, Lord Stark had enlarged the stables and renovated a small part of Winterfell, in order to accommodate the enormous contingent that King Robert brought with him. Winterfell was a huge, mighty and majestic castle, with double walls divided from each other by a moat, and with several towers and bastions, some of which were in disuse and somewhat perched. Bran knew them with his eyes closed, good as he was at climbing everywhere.
Numerous carts of food and firewood were coming in and out of Winterfell, far more than usual. The common rooms were polished, the living quarters were heated and cleaned, with new blankets and towels. The Direwolf banners and tapestries were cleaned, and broken ones were repaired and replaced. The streets of Winterfell and of the adjacent village were swept clean.
The servants were reinforced and carefully trained. The kitchen workers and brewmasters worked tirelessly. Hodor, the strange giant stablehand of Winterfell, cleaned the stables and groomed the horses more than his usual. « Hodor! Hodor! » he repeated, whistling while distributing the fodder with the pitchfork. Hodor looked happier than usual, actually.
A lot of new wooden tubs were built and brought into the guest rooms. 
     « After such a long journey, they will surely want to wash themselves. » Lady Catelyn said to the servants. « Make sure they’ll have an adequate number of soaps and bath oils and salts. Make the quarters of the King, the princes, the Queen and her brothers comfortable. Place a welcome basket for them in their rooms, with wines, beers, meads, fruits, jams, fresh bread and cheeses. Clean goblets and silverware; use the silver ones from Lady Marna's service. Make sure that fireplaces are always lit. » 
Lyra didn't dare imagine the cost of all this. For those two months she did not leave Winterfell once: the lessons with Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane were doubled. Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell’s master-at-arms, trained the Stark boys, Theon and Jon tirelessly, so as “not to make a fool of themselves in front of the Baratheon princes and Ser Jaime Lannister.” Lyra, in the evenings, didn't even have the time to put her head on her pillow before she fell asleep within two seconds.
Every now and then Lyra wanted to join Ser Rodrik’s trainings.
     « I know how much you want to train, Lyra, but right now my priority is for Robb, Bran and Rickon. You should be with the other girls. » Ser Rodrik said to her.

So, Lyra spent these two months with Sansa, Jeyne Poole, Sansa's other ladies in waiting and Arya. Occasionally, she managed to train with Arya and Jon in her free time, and to care for and ride her beloved Moonmare. Her direwolf Meraxes grew bigger every day, but she preferred being outside with Jon and Ghost against sitting in at Lyra's sewing and etiquette lessons.
Maester Luwin, always rather kind towards Lyra, noted her disappointment at not being able to train with her brothers. She was rather bored.
     « I don't know how to use a sword, Lyra. But if you would help me with my ledger in your spare time, I would be very happy. » He said to her one afternoon. « The King's arrival at Winterfell will be very expensive, and you are good at calculations. Furthermore, I will have to double my supplies of medicines, since your father and many of his men will leave for King's Landing. It will be a long journey and they will need a lot of provisions. Do you still want to learn about medicinal plants? Do you want to learn how to make a decoction for fever? »
Lyra's face lit up, and she almost hugged Maester Luwin in joy.
     « Of course, Maester Luwin. I have lessons with Septa Mordane in the mornings, but I'm mostly free in the afternoons and would be happy to help you. »
Maester Luwin smiled softly at her, his hands behind his back. « Very well then. Whenever I am in need your help or have something interesting to show you, I will come and call you. » 
So, Lyra began helping Maester Luwin with his calculations in the afternoons, and learned to make various decoctions, ointments, balms, and poultices.
     « Some herbs should be macerated with alcohol and not water. And pay attention to the quantities of herbs to soak for the spongia somnifera mixture. First you have to let the spongia dry in the sun, then immerse it in the concoction for a few hours. If you have to amputate a limb or cautery a nasty wound, its numbing action becomes essential. »
Lyra had a head full of new knowledge and occasionally made mistakes, but Maester Luwin was always at her side to correct her. Also, Maester Luwin was always the first to know about news, taking care of the aviary and messages coming and going from Winterfell. Lyra was having fun and learning lots of new things, and she also felt useful.

She knew that Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, had died suddenly, and she had overheard Lady Catelyn and her father discussing the fact that King Robert is probably coming to Winterfell in order to appoint Ned his new Hand.
      “If my father accepts, surely the girls will go south with him, along with Bran and perhaps Rickon – even if he’s little. Uhm... well, maybe he’ll stay here with Catelyn. Knowing my father, he will leave Catelyn and Robb here at Winterfell, because “there must always be a Stark at Winterfell.” And Theon too, because he is a hostage here and also a great friend of Robb's. As for Jon and me...” Lyra thought. “Lady Catelyn accepts our presence as long as our father is here. But if he goes to King's Landing, however... And taking two bastards to the King's court with him would not be appropriate. If I stay here, which is very likely, Catelyn will try to marry me off as soon as possible and finally get me out of her sight.”

Lyra, unlike Jon, couldn’t hate Lady Catelyn. She had once hated her, sure, just as Catelyn dislikes her and Jon. And she still tried to avoid her stepmother. But as a woman now, she understands her. Would she ever accept a bastard child as her own? Lyra was honestly unsure. It wouldn’t be the child’s fault, sure, but she would probably throw the bastard baby along with her cheating husband out of the fucking house. She would have file for divorce and then travel through all the Seven Kingdoms, and maybe even to Essos. She would find herself a new lover, strong and faithful. Maybe she would do as Saera Targaryen did? “Who am I kidding? Unlike Saera, I'm still a fourteen-year-old virgin. And I’m not a Targaryen princess with a lot of suitors at my own disposal.”
Lyra was beautiful, they said she looked like her late aunt Lyanna. And Lyanna’s beauty had started a war. But Lyra was a bastard, and no knight nor even a minor noble would want to marry a bastard. 
     “My only hope for a comfortable future is for Ned to acknowledge me and Jon as his legitimate children.” But she knew he wouldn't, and Lady Catelyn would never accept that. “But maybe it's better this way, maybe I'd get bored being a good, noble wife.”
Lyra's life was a constant contradiction, as were as her head and her heart. “I'm already fourteen and I still don't know what I really want. I wish I were as sure as Sansa and Arya are.” Lyra thought. Sansa wanted to marry Prince Joffrey, or a noble knight as handsome, brave and gallant as those in the stories. Arya, on the other hand, absolutely did not want that. “But what do I really want?” 
Lyra wanted to love and to be loved, but she also wanted to be free. Lyra wanted to fight, travel and study, but she also wanted to have a family. She wanted to help the vulnerable, and also study esotericism in Asshai of the Shadows; perhaps, awaken the dragons again. She wanted to heal the wounded and nurse her children. She wanted to befriend the outcasts, to share a meal with them; they always have funny and absurd stories to tell. She wanted to protect her prostitute friends from drunk clients. She wanted to go to sleep cuddled up to her husband, with her direwolf Meraxes sleeping at their feet. She wanted to look out from the balcony of her future home and admire the city crowded with people, but she also wanted to go out onto the porch and find herself in the middle of a forest, keepin’ herself busy growing plants and flowers in the garden and feeding her horse Moonmare. She wanted to be loved, and she wanted to be respected. She wanted to grow old peacefully, but she was afraid of both of growing old and of a life that is too quiet. “I can't have it all. No one can, especially a bastard girl.”

A Stark scout rode back to Winterfell the evening before the King's arrival: Lord Eddard had sent an honor guard led by Jory Cassel to meet them on the kingsroad and escort them back.
     « The King will arrive tomorrow, late morning, my Lord. » The scout said to Ned.
His father had already planned several banquets, hunting parties, and hired several bards for the occasion. The Great Hall had been richly decorated, with new tapestries and silverware and beautiful goblets. The Stark’s direwolf and the Baratheon’s crowned stag coats-of-arms decorated the hall.
     « I want you all clean and well-dressed by tomorrow morning. No excuses. Keep the direwolves locked in your rooms, they might scare our guests. » Said Lady Catelyn, her gaze lingering to Arya. « And you two, too. » she said to Jon and Lyra coldly.

Lyra awoke early that morning, yawning and stroking Meraxes' head as she slept at her feet. She put her ear to the wall: in the next room, Jon was already awake and was practicing against a dummy, making noise. 
     “We have several training dummies in the courtyard, why in the seven hells he now has one in his room, too?” Lyra, Jon and Theon had rooms close to each other. Lord and Lady Stark had their rooms at another side of the castle, in the Great Keep, as did the Stark children.
Lyra took a long bath that morning, soaking in warm water scented with bergamot oil and orange blossom. These bath oils came from Dorne and Lyra loved them. She had also taken a bar of soap and a hair oil with the same scent. After the bath, she put on a body cream that smelled of rosemary and white musk, and washed her face and then her teeth with a mint paste at the basin in the corner of her room. She combed and dried her hair with a towel, then tried to style them. Her hair was wavy and quite unruly; if she dared to comb them from dry, they would become frizzy and her curls were ruined. This morning, she even managed to do her hair in a decent half-updo. She put on the dress she had made for the occasion (with Sansa's help, of course) and sprayed herself with perfume, also with bergamot, orange blossom, rosemary and white musk. 
     “More fragrant, clean and tidy than this...” She thought to herself. “We should receive the King more often, Lady Catelyn has brought a lot of very good bath oils, perfumes and soaps. Not to mention the food and drinks.” After that, she joined her brothers and sisters for breakfast, and then the servants in the courtyard to help them with the final preparations. After that, she locked Meraxes in her chambers. She petted her and kissed her nose.
     « You'll have to be good a good girl next days. If I can, I'll take you with me to the feast tonight. »

     « They're coming! I saw them! That huge carriage will never pass through the gates of Winterfell. » Bran said as he climbed down the walls, agile as a gazelle.
     « Brandon Stark! How many times have I told you? No climbing! It’s dangerous. » Lady Catelyn scolded him.
     « I never fall. And he’s coming right now, down our road! » Bran replied full of excitement.
     « I want you to promise me. No more climbing. »
     « I promise you. » Bran said at his mother, looking down at his feet.
     « You know, you always look at your feet before you lie. » Catelyn stated, smiling warmly at her son. Then, she sent him off to tell his father that the King was close.

When the King arrived, Lord and Lady Stark together with their five children were ahead of everyone, in the front row in the courtyard near the East Gate. Jon, Theon and Lyra were behind them, alongside Ser Rodrik Cassel, the steward Vayon Poole, Hullen the master of horses, Septa Mordane, Septon Chayle and Maester Luwin.
The visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred strong, a pride of bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and free riders. Above them several golden banners, representing the crowned stag of the Baratheons, whipped back and forth in the northern wind. A few banners were red and gold, representing the lion of the Lannisters.

It was cold that morning, but Lyra was surprised to see even Arya wearing a dress. Both Arya and Sansa wore a baby blue gown, but Arya's was simpler, with a gray fur coat over it. Sansa had a baby blue overcoat, inlaid with silver thread, lined inside and at the collar with white fox fur. The overcoat was closed with a leather belt and a silver clasp in the shape of a direwolf. The colour of her gown highlighted her auburn hair and her doe-blue eyes of the Tully of Riverrun. 
The Stark boys and Ned wore elegant padded leather doublets with the direwolf symbol embroidered in silver. Over that, they wore elegant grey fur capes, also fastened with a silver direwolf brooch. Her twin brother Jon Snow, standing to her left, also wore an elegant, but dark-colored doublet, with a dark gray cape over it. To her right, Theon Greyjoy wore an elegant black leather armor embroidered with gold thread: gold and black were the colors of the Greyjoy’s coat of arms. Over it, he wore a black fur-lined cloak, with the golden Greyjoy’s Kraken embroidered on it.
Catelyn was majestic in her blue and red gown, the colours of the Tullys of Riverrun. The gown had silver thread embroidery, which on her chest formed a leaping trout on the right and a direwolf on the left. Over that, she wore an overcoat of a light-gray ermine fur.
Lyra was wearing a dark gray dress with black thread-pattern. Underneath, she was wearing dark fabric trousers and high padded boots. She also wore a long dark gray overcoat, with gray fur sleeves and collar, closed with a black belt and a silver clasp.

Lyra was disappointed to see King Robert at the head of the parade, riding his stallion: she had heard her father talk several times about the war against Aerys Targaryen, and he had described King Robert as a handsome man, tall and muscular, with thick black hair and blue eyes. Every maiden's dream. She recognized the King only by his crown and by the two knights of the kingsguard beside him, with their snow-white cloaks. He was fat, as fat as he was tall, with a huge, unkempt black beard. Everyone bowed. He vaulted off the back of his warhorse with a roar, and crushed Ned with a big hug.
     « Your Grace. Winterfell is yours. » Ned said to the King, bowing his head. 
     « Ned! Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours. » The king looked him over top to bottom, and laughed. « You have not changed at all. Perhaps I find you a little fat...»
Ned just looked at him, raising an eyebrow and nodding his head at the King’s stomach. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then they both burst out laughing.
     « Cat! » The King turned smilingly to Lady Catelyn.
     « Your grac- » Catelyn didn't have time to finish her sentence before she found herself trapped in a bone-crushing hug.

Lyra grinned at herself, entertained. She looked at her sisters: Sansa was smiling at a tall, handsome boy with long blond curls and green eyes, riding a white horse. He looked like he came straight out from a fairytale: he wore a golden and richly adorned armor. He stood elegantly upright in the saddle of his white stallion. He wore a fine cloak that was half gold and half red, with the crowned black stag of the Baratheons on the golden side and the roaring golden lion of the Lannisters on the red side.
     “He must be prince Joffrey.” Lyra thought. “He is more regal than the king himself.”

Robb was frowning at Sansa while she looked at Joffrey in awe. The prince, on the other hand, looked quite bored. 
Next to Prince Joffrey was his uncle Jaime Lannister on a splendid sorrel palfrey, as handsome as the rumors described him. He wore the white enameled scales-armor of the kingsguard, with pieces and fastenings made of silver. A golden crown was carved on the breastplate. And, of course, he was wearing the iconic snow-white cloak. When he took off his white-and-silver helmet, a cascade of golden curls fell onto his clean-shaven face.
On the other side of prince Joffrey, there was a huge man on an equally large black stallion. Even sitting on horseback, his size was impressive: he must have been nearly 7 feet tall. At the very least, 6 feet and 7 inches. His full-armor was dark, unlike Jaime Lannister's one. Not too fancy, but it looked very sturdy. The only decorative element was three running dogs carved into the breastplate, barely visible against the dark steel. He wore an olive-green cloak. But the most noticeable thing was his helmet, in the shape of a snarling dog's head. 
     “That helmet looks scary. Robb should have one made in the shape of a direwolf's head...” thought Lyra. The giant man took off his helmet and put it under his arm, showing his face: hid left side was completely burned, with his left ear reduced to a hole and an eyebrow missing. He had grey hooded eyes, a hooked nose, long dark hair combed from the right side to the left, where no hair grew on the latter. He wore a shaved beard, which grew only on the unharmed side of his face.
Lyra couldn't take her eyes off him, for no reason at all. She wondered how he had gotten that nasty burn on his face. 
     “Well, definitely with fire, Lyra...” she thought, and involuntarily smiled at the joke in her head. 
The giant man, just then, turned his head and looked at her, first frowning and then glaring. Lyra pretended not to notice and looked away. He was quite scary, to be honest.
     “The King has been here for no more than five minutes and I've already made a fool of myself with one of his knights, excellent job.”

Meanwhile, Queen Cersei and her children Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen arrived on foot, followed by a group of the queen's ladies-in-waiting. The double-decker royal carriage was too wide to fit through the gates, as Bran predicted. 
Queen Cersei was beautiful, stunning, ethereal. She was wearing a long, emerald-green gown with long sleeves, with an ermine fur over it. A rich necklace studded with emeralds made her eyes sparkle. She had long, blond hair, the colour of melted gold, tied in an elaborate, southern hairstyle. On her head she wore a golden diadem, also decorated with several emeralds. Her eyes were a striking green colour, just like the emeralds on her necklace and diadem. She had fair skin and a tall and slender, graceful figure. Both Myrcella and Tommen (as well as Joffrey) looked a lot like the Queen. Looking at the King, maybe it was better that way.
     « Where's the Imp? » Arya asked Sansa in a low voice. « Would you shut up? » Sansa replied.
Lyra also wondered where the Imp was. She had heard many rumours about him, and almost never good ones. Apparently, he was as ugly, short and deformed as his two brothers were beautiful, graceful and slender.

The King moved from Ned and Catelyn, ruffling Rickon's hair in the meantime. « Who do we have here? You must be Robb. » The King said to Robb, shaking his hand. « My, you’re a pretty one. » He said turning to Sansa. Then he looked down at Arya. « And your name is? »
     « Arya. »  Her sister replied, not flinching. The king nods.
     « Woah, go on, show us your muscles. » Said the King to Bran. Bran flexed his arm and the King laughed, smiling affectionately at him. « Ah! You'll be a soldier. »
Meanwhile the Queen arrived before Ned and Catelyn, who bowed and kissed her ring. 
As the King looked from one Stark to the next, his gaze fell first on Jon, then on Lyra. He stared at her for several seconds, which seemed like an eternity. He said nothing, neither to her nor to Jon. Understandable, given their lineage. After a while, the King turned to Ned.
     « Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects. »

Notes: Queen Cersei and Prince Joffrey (how I imagine them).

Lyra was truly intimidated by Queen Cersei's beauty. Sansa and her mother Catelyn were beautiful too, but you really couldn't take your eyes off the Queen. Princess Myrcella was only eight or nine, but she would surely grow up to be as beautiful as her mother. Prince Tommen was very good-looking too, with long blond hair (longer than Arya's), but he was a little bit chubby.

     « We’ve been riding for months, my love. Surely the dead would wait. » Cersei said to King Robert. The King however did not even honour her with an answer, and instead he followed Ned towards the crypts. Her father was visibly embarrassed, and he bowed slightly to the Queen before going to the crypts with King Robert. Meanwhile, Ser Jaime had approached his twin, taking her quietly by the arm.
Even Lyra had understood that the King wanted to go to see her aunt Lyanna's tomb; her father had told her about the reasons that started the war between Robert and King Aerys. Lyanna Stark was betrothed to Robert Baratheon, and after almost fifteen years he still had not forgotten her.
     “Even with such a beautiful bride at his side, he still thinks of my aunt who's been dead for years.” Lyra thought. “And if my aunt Lyanna really looked like me as people say, then Queen Cersei is markedly more beautiful and graceful. Maybe my aunt really was truly a special person…”
Even today, Lyra did not understand men very well. It is true: first love is never forgotten, but perhaps one must know how to move on, after all. And the King had had several lovers, even when he was betrothed to her aunt Lyanna, only to go mad when Lyanna was kidnapped by (or ran away with – much more believable, honestly) Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
Lyra had realized that the King was probably still haunted by her aunt's ghost: he had been staring at her for what seemed like an eternity, before. The thought alone sent a shiver down her spine.
     “I probably would have run away too, had I been promised to King Robert.” Lyra knew she was exaggerating, though: the King was very handsome, brave and strong when he was young, from what she heard.

That afternoon there was a bustle of people throughout the castle: many guests went to their assigned rooms to wash and rest. More of the King's men ate lunch in the Great Hall. Other men trained in the castle courtyard, or tended at their horses. Many men set up their tents just outside the castle walls, making a compact encampment. There was no room for all the guests at the castle, so many men remained outside. Lord Stark made sure they were always fed and warmed.
The Queen and her children remained in their room all afternoon, probably resting. Ser Jaime, too.  And still no sign of their younger brother, Tyrion Lannister called the Imp; she knew the Imp had arrived at the castle in the meantime after a stop in Winter Town, but she had not met him. 
Robb, Jon, Bran, and Theon joined the men training in the courtyard. Arya and Rickon were probably out with their direwolves doing some mischief. Sansa had no doubt returned to her quarters to prepare herself for tonight's feast.
Lyra decided to take a walk, intrigued by all this coming and going of people. Then, she grabbed Meraxes from her chamber and led her towards the Godswood: it was never very frequented except by the northeners, who were by now accustomed by the presence of the seven direwolves. Meraxes loved walking there and following the thousand scents of animal tracks, plants and soil. Occasionally she found her direwolf dozing under the giant weirwood tree at the center of the Godswood: the heart tree, with a creepy face carved on its bark.
     “I would never fall asleep under that tree, it looks like it's spying at you.” Lyra had never been a particularly religious girl, as her sister Sansa was. The old gods of the North, in particular, unsettled her. Yet her father Eddard seemed at peace with himself whenever he prayed under the heart tree. And Meraxes often fell asleep under it, in the afternoons after lunch. All seven direwolves seemed to be at home in the godswood.
After the walk in the godswood, Lyra left Meraxes there to run around.
     « Don't cause any trouble, Mer. » she said to her.

Lyra headed for the stables: she hadn't groomed Moonmare yet today, and she knew the stable boys would be working four times as hard as usual for a while. The stables were overflowing with horses, and some of them were tied outside for the lack of space. The majority of horses, however, had been taken to the camps outside the walls. Only the King's and the Kingsguard’s palfreys and stallions, the horses of the more important knights and of the sworn-shields of the princes remained here.
In the stable next to Moonmare there was a huge black stallion, in stark contrast to the light grey coat of her palfrey. The black stallion looked rather restless, and the bay horse in the stable beside him kept well away from him. Moonmare, however, didn't seem to care, continuing to calmly eat her fodder, looking at black beast from time to time. 
As Lyra approached her mare, she raised her head and neighed happily. Lyra took some carrots from one of the crates near the stable entrance, and also grabbed a currycomb and a brush. Moonmare approached the door of her stable, asking Lyra for some petting and a carrot. The black stallion in the next stable raised his head and glared at her, then stamped his hoof on the stone floor of the stable. Moonmare turned to him and calmed him with a soft neigh.
     “He looks like the stallion of Prince Joffrey's sworn-shield.” Lyra thought looking at him, as Moonmare chew the carrot from her hand. “He seems as dangerous as his master.”
     « You don't seem like a very good boy to me. » Lyra said to the stallion, as she opened the door to Moonmare's stable to go inside. She began to groom her, and the mare nuzzled her. « I know how much you like to be brushed, you spoiled little girl. Oh, but I know what you want for real. Another carrot, I bet... » Lyra handed her another carrot, and the mare took it with her teeth. Meanwhile, the black stallion approached Moonmare's stable, leaning out. Lyra backed away, afraid the beast would bite her. Instead, the black stallion bent his muzzle toward Moonmare, making a short nod as if to bow or greet the mare. Moonmare looked at him with the carrot in her mouth. Then, she approached the stallion and they ate the carrot together. When the black beast and Moonmare finished eating the carrot, he nuzzled his nose against hers.
Lyra was almost shocked. Of course Moonmare would have been worshipped by even the most aggressive stallion in the stable. She was that kind of girl. 
     « This is something new, even to me. » said a deep and raspy male voice, coming from a few meters away. « And no, Stranger’s not a “good boy”. » She thought that “Stranger” was a rather inappropriate name, even profane. A huge man emerged from the shadows at the back of the stable, with a water bucket and a sponge in his hands. He was evidently about to wash his stallion. Lyra wondered how long he had been in there. The man was Prince Joffrey's sworn shield, the huge man with the burned left half of his face. He no longer wore his dark full steel armor and his snarling-dog shaped helmet, but his size was still impressive despite him wearing simple woolen clothes.
Lyra blushed, remembering how she had made a fool of herself a few hours earlier. Then, she forced herself to pretend nothing had happened and smiled politely at him, still looking down in embarrassment. She was intimidated by this man and had no intention of angering him.
     “It would be a bad idea both to avoid looking at him and to stare at the left side of his face, tho.” she thought. “If I had half my face ruined, I think both things would bother me. I have to look him in the eyes like I would look at everybody else. Even more so if I want to pretend nothing is happened.” 
She raised her face and met the huge man's gaze, still smiling at him.
     « I'm more shocked that my mare decided to share her carrot, Ser. » 
The giant man smiled slightly, then quickly became serious again. 
     « Not a Ser. » He took a few steps closer to his stallion's stable. Lyra could see him better, a little closer and in the late afternoon light: the burn was really bad and the scars continued all the way down to his neck. The left side of his mouth was almost devoid of lip mucosa, twitching while he speaks. A hint of bone shows on his jaw. The right side of his face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a heavy brow. There is a twisted mass of scars around his left eye, which is still good and not harmed by the fire, dark-grey in colour like the other eye. Lyra could never quite guess a person's age, except when they were very old or very young. He looked to be somewhere between 25 and 35, but who knows.
     « My apologies. Didn't mean to offend. » Lyra replied, nodding her head.
The giant man studied her without answering for a moment, then entered Stranger's stable and began washing him with the sponge, in complete silence. The horse seemed to accept his master's care willingly, and was calmly eating the fodder while being washed. Lyra in the meantime continued to groom her mare, trying to finish as quickly as possible: the silence has always made her uncomfortable, and she hoped fervently that this man did not remember her from this morning.
Her vain hopes were short-lived, however.
     « In the North, is it normal for a bastard girl to laugh at a soldier's face? » he told her at one point, without looking at her or stopping washing his stallion.
Lyra wanted to run away and hide for the next few weeks. She began to stutter, blushing.
     « I... I wasn't laughing at you. I swear. I was just lost in thought. »
     « And is it normal for you to start laughing by yourself? I imagine the joke about my face, in your head, was very funny. »
Lyra found the courage to look up at him again, blushing. The giant man was watching her as he washed his horse: he was frowning, but he almost seemed amused at making her uncomfortable.
     « No, Ser. I was just thinking about something else, I just happened to be looking at you. I was staring without looking, I... well-, yes, that happens to me a lot. To laugh by myself, I mean. »
     « I’m not a Ser, I just told you. Not that you bastards are known for your wits… » said the huge man, frowning, then slightly grinning, then serious again. Lyra was truly in shock for his language. And above all, she didn’t know if he was serious or if he was brutally mocking her.
     « Excuse me? » she said, glaring at him with a mixture of shock and surprise.
     « You're Lord Stark's bastard, aren't you? You and that brother of yours. » he replied to her, with a shrug, as if he had just said the most innocent thing in the world.
Lyra gripped the currycomb in her right hand, quite angrily. « Yes, I am Lord Stark's bastard daughter. So what? » Lyra knew well that she was Ned's illegitimate daughter, and she also knew that literally everyone knows that. She was no fool. But no one had ever dared to call her a bastard to her face so casually, especially not one who met her for five minutes.
Lyra's reaction seemed to amuse him, and the huge man began to laugh. His laughter was like the growling of dogs in a pit. Lyra clenched her jaw in anger and looked at him straight in the eyes. If only he hadn't been literally three times her size, she would have thrown herself at him and punch the good side of his face.
The man seemed to read her mind, and continued to laugh in amusement.
     « What exactly do you want to do? You can barely reach my fucking tits, little girl. » he laughed, then became serious again and added, « You are a bastard and I am a hound, and the Imp is a dwarf. That's a matter of fact. Are you offended, kid? Are you offended by the truths? »
Lyra thought she hadn't heard him correctly, « A... hound...? » she asked him confused. « And I’m not a kid, I’m four and ten! »
The giant man threw the sponge into the bucket of water, and sat down on a stool he had brought into the stable. Before answering her, he took the wineskin from his belt and brought it to his mouth, drinking something that was definitely not water.
     « A hound, aye. That’s what I am, and that’s what they call me. Also, you’re as tall as a kid. »
Lyra was both surprised and outraged. « I won't call you a hound, just as you won't call me a bastard. That’s all. » “And I'm not that short,” she thought. “I'm five feet and two inches, kids are shorter than me.” But she let it go; she didn't feel like arguing anymore.
     « And what should I call you? Milady? » he replied sarcastically, then continued drinking from the wineskin while looking at her.
Lyra was no longer willing to be insulted any longer. She dropped the currycomb to the ground. « You should have figured that out on your own by now, Ser. I'm not a lady, I'm a bastard, remember? Not that you brutes are known for your wits… now, if you’ll excuse me, this bastard needs to prepare for the feast. » With that, she stormed out of the stable, leaving the huge man probably surprised by her reaction.

Lyra took her second bath of the day: she smelled like stables, and she was so furious that she had sweated with rage as she walked back at a fast pace to her rooms. After rubbing herself savagely, Lyra calmed down a little, and she thought again of that huge man. She probably shouldn't have responded so rudely to him, even though he was the first to be insolent. Of course, his rudeness was understandable, since she literally had laughed at his face that morning.
     “Damn it all, I behaved worse than Rickon would have. And Rickon is three. I have literally buried all of Septa Mordane's etiquette lessons into the Stark’s family crypt.” He had certainly been offensive to her, but soldiers were often like that, and they did not care about manners. She, on the other hand, had zero excuses. She had been a bastard, a wild bastard, just as he had expected her to be.
Perhaps she should have apologized to him; but Lyra was much better at pretending nothing had happened than at apologizing, and perhaps after some time he would forget about it. Not that she would see him again after the King and his royal contingent will return to King's Landing.

Lyra's stomach growled, and she realized she had forgotten to eat lunch. All this chaos at the castle was new to her, so she had been distracted all day.
She put on the sage-green dress her father and Sansa gave her for her fourteenth nameday. She fixed her hair and put on a pair of silver earrings. She put on her face some powder and some rose coloured honey-butter on her lips. Finally, she sprayed on the perfume she had worn that morning: bergamot, orange blossom, rosemary and white musk. Afterwards, she headed to the banquet at the Great Hall with her direwolf Meraxes.

She found her twin brother Jon sitting on a bench at the young squires' table at the far end of the Great Hall, in the company of his direwolf Ghost who was under the table. Lyra sat down next to Jon, and Meraxes crouched under the table beside Ghost. The long tables were already half full, and there were already several flagons of wine, mead, and ale, as well as several platters of bread and cheeses. Neither Lyra nor Jon were admitted to the seats of honour, as they are illegitimate offsprings. Their brothers and sisters sat with the royal children, at the table just below the raised platform that hosted the King, the Queen, and Lord and Lady Stark.

Before they took their places of honour, there was a procession accompanied by the rhythm of the bards' music. Their Lord father had come first, escorting Queen Cersei, beautiful as always. Their father helped her up the steps to the dais and led her to her seat, but the Queen never so much at looked at him. Next had come King Robert himself, with Lady Stark under his arm. After them came the children. Little Rickon was the first, managing the long walk with all the dignity a three-years-old could muster. Jon and Lyra had to urge him on when he stopped to visit and Bran, right behind him, took Rickon by the arm and dragged him away.
Close behind came Robb, in grey wool trimmed with white, the Stark colours. He had the princess Myrcella on his arm. Lyra noticed the shy looks she gave Robb as they passed between the tables and the timid way she smiled at him, Robb grinning in the meantime.
     “They're really cute, she seems very sweet.” Lyra thought, smiling by herself.
     « She's insipid. She looks stupid. And Robb’s grinning like a fool. » Jon commented next to her in a low voice, leaning close to her ear. He was already on his second glass of wine, and the feast had yet to begin.
     « You are too harsh, she’s an eight-year-old girl, brother. And Robb's been a fool since forever. » Lyra replied. They started giggling.
Their half-sisters escorted the Royal princes. Arya was paired with plump young Tommen, whose blond hair was longer than hers. Sansa drew the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon. He was twelve but taller than both Jon and Robb, to her twin’s vast dismay. He wore a high velvet collar and a golden chocker. Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, smiling. However, Lyra noticed that Joffrey looked at Winterfell’s Great Hall with both boredom and disdain. She did not like that.
     « Mmmh, you know what? I don't like the look on Prince Joffrey's face. »
     « I don't like him at all, he seems like a big douchebag. » Jon replied.
     « I really hope not, Sansa would be disappointed. »
     « Sansa needs to face reality and grow up. »
Lyra turned to Jon and giggled. « Tell me, Jonny-boy. Are you jealous that our dear prince is taller than you at literally twelve? » Jon gave her a friendly slap, laughing. « Shut up! You’re such a silly girl! ».
Then, they started to annoy each other until the queen's brothers, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, entered: the Lion and the Imp. There were no doubts on which was who.
The Lion of the Lannisters had changed, he no longer wore the white armor of the Kingsguard; he wore crimson silk, high black boots, a big satin cloak. On the breasts of his tunic, the lion of his House was embroided in gold thread, roaring his defiance. The smile on his face could cut like a knife, and his long golden hair shone in the torchlight of the Great Hall. Beneath his heavy white-and-silver kinsguard armor, he concealed a tall and slender, yet strong and muscular physique.
     “He’s handsome. This is what a King should look like. It's a shame he's a knight of the kingsguard.” Lyra thought, blushing. The knights of the kingsguard were sworn to celibacy for life, so they could neither marry, nor father heirs, nor technically have lovers. 
Beside him scampered his brother, the Imp, half hidden by Ser Jaime's shadow. Tyrion Lannister was the youngest of Lord Tywin’s brood and by far the ugliest: all that the gods had given to Cersei and Jaime, they had denied poor Tyrion.
He was a dwarf (but that was already known), half his brother's height and with short, stunted legs. His head was large in proportion to his body. He had one black eye and one green eye, with hair so blond it seemed white.
The last of the High Lords to enter were their uncle Benjen Stark of the Night's Watch and Theon Greyjoy.
 
The banquet began, and lasted several hours. There were several courses and several drinks. Lyra's favorite was Arbor's summerwine, which went down almost like water and soon made her dizzy. Jon had started drinking even before the feast, and was still drinking. Every now and then, she and Jon would slip a treat under the table for the two direwolves.
This evening was one of the few for which she and Jon were happy to be two bastards: their sisters and brothers could only drink one glass of wine, and they had not been allowed to bring with them their direwolves. On the other hand, at Jon and Lyra's table the alcohol flowed freely, and the Great Hall was full of dogs begging for food from the guests: so, no one had paid much attention towards the two direwolves under the table.

After several hours, the hall was bubbling with tipsy people, and the smoke from the fireplaces and the roast meats and the stews blinded Lyra’s eyes. Meanwhile, the young squires at their table chatted about this and that: weapons, battles, hunting trips, and bedding young ladies. Every now and then they apologized to Lyra for their language. She smiled and told them to not mind her. The bards hired by her lord father played several lively ballads, but Lyra could hardly hear them, the noise was so loud.
The Great Hall was huge and could accommodate hundreds of people, but many common soldiers were celebrating in the camp just outside the walls, where Lord Stark had built a large tent with many tables where they could eat and drink. The soldiers were joined by several commoners, curious about the King's arrival: normally, Winter Town was half empty during the summer and filled up during the winter years, when people returned from the fields. Only one in four houses was inhabited during the summer. Even though it was ending, it was still summer in Westeros; however, in these days Winter Town was crowded and bustling with people.

Under the table, two dogs had started fighting with Ghost and Meraxes over a chicken. Obviously the two dogs got the worst of it, and retreated with their tails between their legs, leaving Ghost and Meraxes enjoy their dinner.
     « Are these the direwolves I've heard so much about? » a familiar voice approached Lyra and Jon. Both Jon and Lyra looked happily as their uncle Ben put a hand on Jon's head and ruffled his hair, and at the same time he hugged Lyra with his other hand and gave her a kiss on the head. Lyra happily got up from the bench and hugged him tighter. Uncle Ben then climbed over the bench and sat down with his nephews.
     « Their names are Ghost and Meraxes. Ghost is the big one with the red eyes, he's Jon's direwolf. » Lyra told her uncle. Uncle Benjen smiled, then tasted the wine from Jon's cup.      
     « Summerwine. Nothing so sweet. How many cups have you two had? »
Jon and Lyra smiled, looking at each other in a knowing way. Benjen laughed. « As I feared…» he said. « Don't you usually eat at table with your brothers? »
     « Most times, » Jon answered in a flat voice. « But tonight, Lady Stark thought it might be insult to the royal family to seat two bastards among them. »
Lyra shrugged and said: « Not that I mind, actually. I've had more than a glass of wine, and I've got Meraxes here with me. » Jon didn't seem to think the same way, though.
Jon and Uncle Benjen began to talk, and Lyra could only understand a few words over the noise in the Great Hall. She was also feeling a little dizzy. She took a piece of warm bread and bit into it, hoping it would ease her tipsiness a little.
They began talking about the Wall, and she heard Jon asking him to take him with him. « I want to serve in the Night’s Watch, Uncle. I am ready to swear your oath, a bastard can have honor too. Please, Father will give me leave to go if you ask him, I know he will. »
The smile on Lyra’s face disappeared at those words. Did her brother really want to go to the Wall? Did he really want to swear to serve there, in the cold, for his entire life, never marrying or having children? Did he really want to leave her alone at Winterfell? If Jon left, she would be alone. It would be just her, Lady Catelyn, Theon, and Robb. And maybe Rickon. It was hard enough to think about Arya, Sansa, Bran, and her father all heading to King’s Landing soon; but at least she thought she had Jon. Lyra remained silent, and took another sip of wine frowning.
Even Benjen seemed to have his doubts. « You’re still young, Jon, only fourteen. You’re not a man yet. You’ve never even met a woman; you really don’t know what you’re missing. » he put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. « If you knew what the oath would cost you might be less eager to pay the price, son. Come back to me after you fathered a few bastards of your own, and we’ll see how you feel. »
Jon trembled, jumping up from the bench. « I will never father a bastard. Never! » He spat it like venom.
The table had fallen silent, and they were all looking at Jon. Lyra put a hand on his arm to calm him, but Jon pulled away. She saw his eyes fill with tears.
    « I must be excused. » Jon climbed over the bench to leave, when he tripped over a serving girl. The carafe she was carrying fell and spilled all the wine, making everyone who had watched the scene laugh at Jon’s clumsiness. It was obvious he had drunk too much. Lyra saw Jon's cheeks flush and tears fall from his eyes, and he ran toward the exit with Ghost at his heels.
For a moment Lyra didn't know what to do, whether to follow her brother or let him vent on his own. She brooded for a while. Then she turned to her uncle and excused herself, and stood up to follow Jon.

She searched for her brother for a while, with Meraxes in tow, and found him in the courtyard talking to none other than Tyrion Lannister, the Imp. She approached while the conversation was still going on, and was surprised to see Tyrion petting Ghost near his ear. The sound of Lyra's footsteps in the snow made the two men turn. Meraxes approached her brother Ghost, then sniffed Tyrion. « Be good, Meraxes. Sit down, don't scare people. » Meraxes sat down and let the imp pet her. She even gave him a kiss on the hand.
Lyra smiled at the Imp.
     « Good evening, my Lord. Meraxes is a little more affectionate than Ghost. Still, I hope she didn't scare you. »
Tyrion Lannister's face lit up. « Meraxes? Like the dragon? »
Lyra continued to smile. « That's right, my Lord. I like dragons very much. And she is pale like Queen Rhaenys’ dragon was. »
     « Dragon stories were always my favourite, growing up. »
Lyra laughed. « Mine too, my lord. Still to this day, if I'm being honest. »
Tyrion grinned from ear to ear. « Please, call me Tyrion. »
Lyra nodded and walked over to Jon, placing a hand on his shoulder. « I was hesitating about following you, actually. Are you alright? » Jon didn't answer, just put his hand on hers and nodded.
     « You’re Ned Stark’s bastards, aren’t you? »
Jon's lips twitched: he was angry, still he said nothing. Lyra sighed: it was the second time today that she had been called a bastard.
     « Did I offend you? » Tyrion said. « Sorry, dwarfs don’t have to be tactful. Generations of capering fools in the motley have won me the right to dress badly and say any damn thing that comes into my head. » He grinned. Lyra chuckled silently at his words. « You are the bastards, though. »
     « Lord Eddard is our father. » Jon admitted stiffly. 
Tyrion Lannister studied his face, and then hers. «Yes, I can see it. You two have more of the north in you than your brothers. »
     « Half-brothers. » Jon corrected.
Lyra continued to giggle, despite her brother’s tension. « You're the second person today to call me a bastard, is this a Southern thing? » Lyra thought back at the sharp words the huge burned man had said to her that afternoon at the stables. She was offended, just as Jon was being offended now, if not worse. Right now, though, she was tipsy and she saw no malice in the dwarf's words.
Jon turned to Lyra. « And who would have called you a bastard?! »
     « Ah, don’t worry, just a man at the stables this afternoon. A King's man. He was a huge brute, with half of his face burned off. »
Tyrion laughed heartily. « Ah, the Hound. One of his kinder comments about someone, now that I think about it. You’re lucky. »
Jon said, shocked. « You spoke to the Hound?! »
Lyra shrugged. « I saw him at the stables and he started talking. Shouldn't I have answered him? »
Jon scowled at her. « He's one of the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms. »
Tyrion grinned. « Yeah, and if I may add, he also has a really bad temper. »
Lyra laughed. « Well, Lord Tyrion, to be honest I realized he’s rude after about one minute or two of conversation. »
They continued to laugh, then Tyrion turned to Jon. « Let me give you some counsel, bastard. Never forget who you are, because the world surely will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Arm yourself with it, and it will never be used to hurt you. »
Jon was in no mood for anyone's counsel. « And what do you know about being a bastard? »
     « All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes. »
     « You are your mother's trueborn son of Lannister. »
     « Am I? » the dwarf replied to him, sardonic. « Do tell my lord father. My mother died birthing me, and he's never been sure. »
     « We don't even know who our mother was. » Jon said.
     « Some woman, no doubt. Most of them are. » He favoured them with a rueful grin. « Remember this. All dwarfs may be bastard, yet all no bastards need be dwarfs. » And with that Tyrion turned and strolled back into the feast, whistling a tune. Lyra and Jon watched him walk away. When he opened the door, the light from within threw the shadow clear across the yard, and for just a moment Tyrion Lannister stood as tall as a King.

Jon and Lyra were left alone with their direwolves.
     « So… is that really true? Do you want to join the Night's Watch? »
Jon gave her a sorry smile. « That's true, little sister. There's nothing else for me in this place. »
     « But… what about me? Have you thought about it? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy if you've really found your path, but... are you sure? »
Jon sighed.  « I've thought about it a lot, and ever since Jon Arryn died and King Robert started coming to Winterfell down the Kingsroad, I've been convinced. Our lord father, Bran, and our half-sisters will go to King's Landing; we'll be staying here with Lady Stark. She can still marry you off to some old, fat minor lord, but as for me... I repeat, there's nothing left for me here. »
     « You don't want to marry? »
     « No, I don't care in the slightest. I'd just be the father of more bastards... » Jon said. He had a regretful look on his face. « Please, don’t take offence. »
     « No, don't worry, I understand what you meant. I'm sad, though, I couldn't come visit you. Women are not allowed at Castle Black. »
Jon smiled at her. « I could come visit you, like Uncle Benjen does with us sometimes. » 
Lyra smiled back. « But uncle Ben visits us at Winterfell once, maybe twice a year at most. Do you really want to leave me with Theon? »
Jon and Lyra both chuckled. « Robb will be here, and maybe Rickon will be here too. You won't be completely alone. »
Lyra's face darkened. « You know? I'm a bit envious of you. »
Jon was taken aback by her words. « And how come? You want to join the Night's Watch too? »
Lyra looked at him softly. « And sit there in the cold? No thanks. But I would have liked to be born a man, and go to study at Oldtown’s Citadel. »
Jon laughed. « You?! A maester of the Citadel?! »
Lyra slapped him on the arm. « What's so funny about that?! I'd make a great maester! »
Jon continued to laugh. « Maester's live to serve... the words “Lyra” and “serve” can't belong in the same sentence. »
Lyra sneered. « You're underestimating me, Jon Snow. »
Jon smiled. « Probably, Lyarra Snow. Now please excuse me, sister… but I'd like to think for a bit on my own... maybe I misbehaved with Uncle Ben. I'm going to take a few steps with Ghost. Goodnight. »

He kissed her on the cheek and walked away.

Notes : Lyra is a stylish bastard (yep, that’s Ciri’s armor from the witcher 3).

Lyra didn't feel like going back to the feast, not without her twin-brother Jon. But she didn't feel like going to sleep either. It had been a while since she had seen her friend Fjona – a month, perhaps? And she'd heard there is a feast in Winter Town, as well as at the King's soldiers' camp. However, it is best to avoid the latter. Also, the cold and the fullness of food had caused her to lose the drunkenness of alcohol.

So, Lyra went to change into a simple white wool blouse and dark leather trousers, and also wore a pair of gloves and high lined boots and a short dark cape.
     “No, Meraxes, it's better if you wait for me in the room tonight. There are too many people around and they might recognize you.” she said to her direwolf, leaving her sleep on the bed in her room. She took her dagger for safekeeping, and put it on her belt.
She walked away, exiting the castle through the servants' passage. She was lucky: practically everyone was busy with the festivities in the Great Hall, and she found very few people. The servants' passage passed through the kitchens, and Myrian the baker winked at her. Apparently, everyone knew about her nocturnal escapades except her lord father and most of her brothers.
Winter Town was about a 10/15-minute walk from Winterfell. She passed well away from the King's men's camp: she saw several bonfires, there was music, and several voices singing and talking.    
     “Looks like they're having fun.” Lyra thought as she walked.

The streets of Winter Town were full, so Lyra pulled up the hood of her cape. She arrived in front of the brothel, which was much busier and noisier than usual. “I wonder if Fjona can hear me?” she thought, and began throwing pebbles at the usual window. After a while, another prostitute, Brytt, appeared.         
     « Honey, a lot of us are at the tavern searching for customers. See if– … Oh-Ohw! Yes, yes, like that! » Brytt was interrupted by a man who took her from behind.
     « This is no time to talk, whore. I paid you for half an hour, and for half an hour you better fuck me. » cursed to Brytt the man's nasal voice as he fucked her while pulling her hair.
     « Thank you, Brytt. » Lyra replied, rolling her eyes: sometimes she wondered how men could not understand how false the pleasure of prostitutes was.

Lyra walked toward the usual tavern, not far from the brothel in fact. It was crowded with people, and as Brytt had told her, there were several prostitutes in the process of soliciting new customers.
Among the crowd she caught a glimpse of Fjona talking to Timmy-Three-Minutes. Tim was a man in his late 50s, almost always drunk. She still didn't know what his job was, she just know he was a regular customer of Fjona. He had a balding head, a wart on his nose, and his breath constantly smelled of stale ale. Fjona had nicknamed him “Three-Minutes” for obvious reasons.
Lyra interrupted them. As soon as Fjona saw her, she hugged her tightly. « Please, excuse us for a second. » Fjona said to Timmy-Three-Minutes.
     « You're mean. A second is a long time for Timmy… » Lyra giggled as she and Fjona walked a little further away. Fjona burst into laughter.
     « Babe, I apologize in advance for tonight. Give me fifteen minutes at most and I'll join you. As you know I can deal with Timmy quickly. Can you order me a beer in the meantime? A big one, please, gods know how I need it after today... »
     « Sure, honey. I'll wait for you at the usual table. »
Fjona shrugged. « If you find a place to sit... today the tavern is full, as you can see there are people drinking standing up and outside. »
With that, Fjona walked out of the tavern with Timmy staggering alongside her, a hand on her arse.

Lyra tried to make her way through the rivers of people: the tavern was full, and a platform had been set up where a group of four bards were playing cheerful and bawdy songs. Many people were dancing to the music, and a lot were drinking and giggling with friends, some standing and some sitting at overcrowded tables. On one hand, she considered herself lucky: with so many people around, very few would have noticed her.
Lyra's usual table was a round one that sat about 4 people, 6 if you were sit tight together. She liked it because it was located in a corner under the stairs that led at the upper floor where the bedrooms were, and so it was half-hidden. From there you could have a good view of the tavern, but anyone who came in would hardly notice the table: it was ideal for Lyra, since she often sneaked out of the castle and didn't want to be recognized. 
By pushing away some people, she finally managed to get to the counter where Marius, the innkeeper and owner, was filling dozens of tankards of ale at lightning speed. « Marius, can you please make me two large tankards of ale? »
     « Aye. Long time no see! Check if there's still room left somewhere. » 

Lyra took the two tankards of ale from the counter and precariously balanced herself towards the corner where the usual table was. She had to push a few people with her shoulders and nearly dropped a mug. She approached the table looking down, careful not to trip over her own feet or anyone else's.
When she approached the table, for a second, she thought it was free. Then, she looked up: sitting right in the corner was that huge, intolerable, burned man they called the Hound, currently drinking long gulps of ale from a large tankard. There were two other large, empty tankards on the table.
Lyra froze for a moment, then realized that he hadn't noticed her, gulping at his ale like a brute, so she slowly turned around, looking for another table to sit at. “Seven hells, if he sees me he'll recognize me straight away.” She thought while sneaking away.
Again, her vain hopes were short-lived.

     « Does your daddy know you're here, little wolf? » His tone was mocking and his voice was more hoarse than usual from the alcohol. Lyra froze, frightened for a moment: she had recognized her, exactly what shouldn't have happened. But then she decided she had had enough of this big windbag (maybe thanks to the liquid courage from the feast).
She turned and frowned at him, tankards in her hands. « This is my table. »
     « If I'm sitting at it, the table is mine. »
     « I'm a regular customer, I can get you kicked out in half a second. »
     « Oh, really? » the asshole looked at her, smiling mischievously. « Seems like your daddy only has leashes for your half-sisters. Listen, little wolf, if you really are a regular customer, have that bugger of an innkeeper throw me off this fucking table. »
Lyra turned towards the counter: she saw Marius the innkeeper watching them from a distance, turning pale when he noticed Lyra and the huge burned man watching him, then he pretended nothing had happened and continued drawing ale, whistling. It was obvious that he wanted zero problems with the Hound.
The Hound laughed, a raucous laugh. « Aye, I see your beloved innkeeper has no intention of throwing me out. »
Lyra then simply walked over, set the two tankards of ale down to the table brutally, and sat down across from the Hound. « What do you want? » she asked angrily.
The Hound took one last long drink from his tankard, finishing off the rest of his ale. After that, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at her. Lyra watched him with disgust. 
     « You know, I'm really thirsty. » He stated, then he reached out and drank from one of Lyra's two tankards. Lyra was in shock.
     « Besides, little wolf, drinking ale after wine is a terrible idea. » he added.
     « Hey! That's not yours! » Lyra said, leaning over the table to try to snatch the tankard from him: the Hound continued drinking as if nothing was happening. Later, Lyra gave up, the Hound’s grip too strong. After a few more gulps, the Hound started talking again.
     « Oh, I know, it's for your whore of a friend you were talking to earlier, right? That means she'll drink yours. »
Lyra crossed her arms and snorted, almost amused by this surreal situation. « Were you spying on me? »
     « Don't flatter yourself, lass. I am the Prince's sworn-shield, my job is to observe. I do it out of habit even when I'm off-duty. » The Hound took another long drink from Lyra's (former) ale. With a half smile he continued. « So... sneaking out of Winterfell without the approval of your Lord father, brothel whores for friends, bad temper, unladylike manners and the Stranger knows what else. And I haven't known you for a day. The least you can do is to buy me this fucking ale. You’re giving me a headache. »
Lyra chuckled, crossing her arms. It was clear he was trying to annoy her, and Lyra tried to appear unperturbed. « Very unchivalrous of you to let a girl buy you a drink. »
     « I’m no knight. »
Lyra rolled her eyes. « I know, I was being sarcastic. »
     « Sarcasm is supposed to make people laugh. » He answered her, raising his intact eyebrow. He studied her for a few seconds. « Why the hell are you still here? »
     « I already told you. It's my fucking table, if I bother you, then go the hell away. »
The huge man chuckled. « You really have a big mouth for a lady. »
     « I’m no lady. »
He rolled his eyes and continued drinking. « I think I heard, though, that Lord Stark gave you and that brother of yours the same education as his own legitimate children. Surely your Septa taught you good manners. Your red-haired half-sister seems to have understood her teachings, unlike you. »
Lyra burst out laughing. « Does your sworn-shield duties include being a gossip? »
     « Listening is also part of my job. » he stated.
Lyra began to drink from the tankard that was supposed to be for Fjona. She answered him with a sneer. « Really? Have you inquired about me? Am I a threat to your beloved prince Joffrey? »
The Hound grinned. « Careful. You wouldn’t last five minutes in King's Landing with this kind of attitude. »
Lyra shrugged. « Good thing I'm not coming, then. »
     « You'll continue to keep your head attached to your neck, then, for now at least, little wolf. Besides, the Queen probably wouldn't accept a bastard at court. »
Lyra frowned, but tried to keep her temper in control. « Since when am I a little wolf to you? »
The Hound laughed hoarsely, continuing to drink. « It's what you are. You don't want to be called kid, you don't want to be called a bastard. You’re leaving me little choice. »
Lyra sank back into the wooden chair, laughing. « That's very kind of you, but I have a name, you know? »
     « Kind… » The Hound snorted. « I know you have a name, you bastards have one too. Snow, is that what you Northern bastards are called? However, I don't care in the least. »
Lyra rolled her eyes, and took two swigs of ale. « I do care, however. I won't call you dog or hound. After all, I'm a polite person at heart. » Lyra made a dramatic gesture, raising the tankard of ale with her right arm and bringing her left hand to her chest. « I've learned a thing or two from my Septa, believe it or not. Also, I really want to know the name of the person who's going to be my pain in the ass for the next few days. » Perhaps, Lyra was tipsy again. Or maybe she was just tired of being treated like a little girl by this man.
The Hound looked at her thoughtfully. Lyra couldn't tell if she'd surprised him or not. « All right, if you really want to know. My name is Sandor Clegane. No one calls me by my name, though. » He drank the last of his fourth ale, his beard smeared with beer foam.
Lyra's eyes widened for a second. Clegane... she remembered Maester Luwin's teachings. Clegane had been the one who had killed the infant Aegon Targaryen and then... had done bad things to Princess Elia Martell. But wasn't he a knight? She didn't remember well. Lyra fell silent. She knew this man sitting across from her wasn't a good man, but she hadn't thought he would be awful like that. Suddenly bile rose in her throat with anger and she involuntarily reached for her dagger. Sandor, the Hound, frowned.
     « I know what you're thinking, little wolf. The one who killed Aegon and raped Elia was my brother Ser Gregor Clegane, not me. » he spat saying the word “ser”. « Now take your hand off that dagger, I'm sure you don't want to die tonight. And I'll drink this, or you'll have a terrible headache in the morning. » He said, taking Lyra’s (or rather, Fjona’s) other tankard.
Lyra took her hand off the dagger, looking down, suddenly uncomfortable. « So you've never... »
     « Killed anyone? » Sandor laughed heartily, like the growling of a dog. « I’m a sworn-shield, remember? I killed my first man when I was younger than you, lass. And yes, I've killed women and children too. But I never killed Prince Aegon Targaryen nor I raped Elia Martell. » His gaze was serious, slightly clouded by alcohol. It was as if mentioning his brother had put him in a bad mood. « Let me see that tool of yours. » he added, changing the subject.
Lyra narrowed her eyes, gripping the hilt of her dagger tightly in her right hand.
     « I promise not to steal your toy. » he said, slightly amused.
Lyra gingerly passed him the dagger locked in the scabbard. Sandor took it and looked at it, weighing it, then took out the dagger and studied it. He ran his finger over the direwolf-head shaped pommel and on the curved blade.
     « A nice toy for a bastard. Do you know how to use it or do you just carry it around for show? »
     « You don't want to know that. » Lyra replied, clearly annoyed.
The Hound sneered, handing her the dagger back.

Just then Fjona arrived. She stopped in her tracks when she saw the Hound sitting down at the table, then, when she noticed Lyra too, she came over smiling and kissed her on the cheek. « Hello, darling. Where's my beer? »
Lyra nodded at the Hound. « This brute drank it all. » 
Fjona had been trying to avoid looking at the Hound until now; she glanced at him quickly, then looked back at Lyra. She shrugged. « I'll go get two more then. »
     « Three more. »  Sandor corrected her.
     « Haven't you drunk enough already?! » Lyra scolded him.
     « Never mind. » Fjona winked at Lyra, pulling out a few coppers out of her leather pouch. « Tonight's on Timmy-Three-Minutes. »
Lyra gaped at her, laughing. « What?! How... »
Fjona shrugged. « Well, he can't count, so... I consider it a reward for fucking his ugly face almost every day. »
Lyra blushed at that, knowing Sandor was listening, and then looked at Fjona worriedly. « Are you sure he doesn't notice? »
     « Don't worry, honey. I've done it a few times before, and that drunken fatso never noticed. » She kissed her on the head and walked away to the counter.
Fjona returned shortly after with three tankards of dark ale. She set them down on the table and sat down next to Lyra.
     « So… who is him? Is he your betrothed? » Fjona said, referring to Sandor, glaring at him. Lyra blushed and then giggled. Sandor looked at them silently, frowning.
     « What?! No. He’s Prince Joffrey Baratheon's sworn-shield. » The Hound ignored them and began drinking his new ale.
Fjona sighed in relief. « Thank goodness, darling. I saw him a few hours ago at the brothel. I wouldn't have known how to tell you... »
Sandor glared at Fjona as he drank, raising an eyebrow. Lyra laughed. « I wonder why, but I'm not surprised. Who was he foisted on? » Sandor glared at her angrily, but Lyra didn't care. He had bothered her all evening, now it was her turn to bother him. Fjona wasn't looking at him (she was probably uncomfortable by his presence) so she didn't notice the Hound's anger. She shrugged. « Do you know that Braavosi brunette? The new one, she's only been here a few months... »
Lyra giggled. « Yes, I know her. She’s cute… »
The Hound slammed his tankard down on the table. A few people turned around, then went back to dancing to the songs the bards were playing. Lyra and Fjona looked at him in fear.
     « I came here to drink in peace, not to listen to your childish bullshit. Where I stick my cock is none of your fucking business. » His voice wasn't loud, but his raspy, angry voice sent shivers down Lyra's spine. “Maybe I exaggerated...” she thought.
The table fell silent for a few minutes, all three of them silently drinking their beers, the atmosphere becoming awkward.
At one point, Fjona stood up and took Lyra by the arm. « I love this song! The Bear and the Maiden Fair! Let’s go dancing! » Lyra mentally sighed with relief. She nodded to Sandor and walked away with Fjona to the dance floor.

They danced wildly for nearly an hour, and Lyra almost forgot about the Hound's looming presence at the corner table. Fjona drank a few glasses of whiskey between one song and another, and let herself go. When they returned to the table to finish their beers, the Hound was nowhere to be found.
     « Why were you sitting with him, by the way? »  Fjona laughed. « Allyqua the Braavosi was terrified when she saw him at the brothel today. I can hardly look him in the face either... I mean, you saw him, right? And I've fucked a lot of ugly men in my life. He really has a nasty burn. And he’s not a funny lad either. »
Lyra blushed. She didn't think Sandor was ugly, actually; yes, his burn was nasty, but it wasn't his fault he got hurt. She felt sorry for him, even though he wasn't a nice person, yet she didn't think it was right that he was labeled as repulsive just because he was burned and because he was big and bulky and scary.  She pushed such ridiculousness aside in her head.  “Wait, am I actually feeling sorry for that man? Maybe I’m really drunk. And drinking beer after summerwine wasn’t a good idea.” Lyra’s face darkened. “Besides, that idiot frequents brothels. That’s gross. A man who takes advantage of women with some money does not deserve my compassion.” She avoided telling Fjona these things. Lyra had respect for prostitutes, but not much for the men who fucked them. Besides, brothels breed bastards. Bastards like herself.
     « I met him at the stables this afternoon and he insulted me, calling me a bastard, » Lyra replied. « Then I found him sitting at our table and he wouldn't get up. So, I sat down with him to annoy him. That's all. »
Fjona smirked at her, her eyes glassy from the alcohol. « Oh, that's all... Theon often makes fun of you too, and yet... »
     « And yet what? I always give Theon a stern answer. Anyway, what does Theon have to do with it?! »
Fjona shrugged. « How long have you and Theon known each other? Ten years? You and him are somewhat close, you’re like brother and sister. But, you're not close to this ugly big man, and yet... »
     « And yet?! » Lyra snapped.
     « And yet I could cut the sexual tension between you two with a knife. » Fjona giggled.
Lyra blushed. « What?! Are you silly?! We hate each other! »
Fjona shrugged again. « The line between love and hate is often very thin. I've seen many men like him come and go from the brothel; men with low self-esteem and a lot of pent-up anger. That's how they are, they try to push people to the limit to see if they stay. »
     « Maybe you really drank too much. »
     « You say so? Did you see how he blushed when I mentioned the Braavosi whore? »
     « No, he glared at us. And besides, you didn't look at him in the face for half a second! So what the fuck are you talking about? »
Fjona giggled. « I don't need to look at men's faces to know how they really feel! »
Lyra rolled her eyes. «You're completely insane. And what you're saying makes no sense, from start to finish. Sandor's only staying in Winterfell for a few days, if he wanted to fuck me, he would have asked me directly. Trust me, we despise each other. »
     « Ahhh, Sandor? Did you ask his name? » Fjona put her hand to her mouth and giggled. « Of course you asked his name. Also, a man who habitually goes to whores because women are terrified of him and his face would surely ask Ned Stark's virgin daughter to fuck him. Are you sure I am the silly one, darling? »
Lyra was shocked.
Fjona yawned and then sobbed. « Honey, I would love to talk to you all night, but I'm so tired. I've been very busy today. » She kissed her cheeks twice. « Don't give in to that brute's advances. » 
Lyra rolled her eyes. « I’d more likely slit his throat by tomorrow morning. »
Fjona laughed, shook her head, said goodbye to Lyra, and walked out of the tavern.

When Lyra left the tavern after Fjona, it was almost the time of the wolf. The streets were icy, and the wind was cold. Lyra pulled her hood up and hugged herself. She headed toward Winterfell, watching her steps carefully. She wondered if Sandor had returned to Winterfell or if he was still out drinking: the fires in the King's soldiers' camp were still burning, and there were still several men out celebrating. Lyra slipped into the Castle through the servants' entrance.
As she reached her chambers, Meraxes greeted her, licking her face happily. Lyra quickly changed into a wool nightgown, undid her hair, and got under the fur covers, with Meraxes falling asleep at her feet.

Lyra woke up the next morning with a terrible headache. She woke up considerably later than usual, and would have slept on if only she hadn't been so thirsty and had an intense need to relieve herself. Her rooms were on the first floor, not far from the Great Hall and the kitchens: there was a great din and the smell of warm bread and jam made her nauseous. She had sweated during the night, and the sweat was strangely sticky and... smelled of alcohol.
     “Damn, I really overdid it last night. Maybe a long, hot bath will help.” She thought.
After about half an hour, the maids filled Lyra's wooden tub. Lyra didn't wait a second: she needed to wash herself. 
     « My lady! The water is very hot, you must wait ten minutes at least, otherwise you will burn yourself. » the new maid said to Lyra. The other two maids (older ones) shrugged: they both knew by now that Lyra had thick skin and had never burned herself with hot water.
Lyra dismissed the maids and sank into the water, steam rising from the tub. She didn't like cold weather, despite having grown up in Winterfell. She, Jon, and Robb had been born at the end of winter, and had grown up during the long summer. “And now it's autumn, and Winter is coming, and I'm already fucking cold. I should have been born in Dorne.”

Ned had said that the King would remain at Winterfell two weeks at most, to “rest, eat and drink like a bull, hunt and fuck in a real bed”, to quote King Robert’s words literally. 
In five days, the King, Ned, Robb, Theon, uncle Benjen and several other men would go hunting in the Wolfswoods. In the meantime, there would be banquets, trainings in the courtyard, and entertaining sewing sessions with the Septa and Princess Myrcella. Lyra, of course, had not been invited. 
     « Do not be offended, my dear, but it is not fitting for an illegitimate daughter to sit next to the crown princess during sewing lessons. » Septa Mordane told her. Lyra chuckled when she saw Arya's face after she was forced to attend.
Of course, Lyra couldn't train with her brothers and Theon either. « It would be best not to let the King and the royal contingent see that we train a... girl... and a bastard girl at that. Forgive my bluntness. »  Rodrik Cassel told her.
     « But Jon can train. »  Lyra recalled. Rodrik Cassel blushed slightly.
     « Aye, that's true. But he's a man. And anyway, I don't let him train with the princes or the King's men whatsoever. »  
She spent her meals with Jon, apart from the rest of the family. It was depressing, and on the one hand she couldn't wait for the King to leave. Even if it meant never seeing her sisters, her father, Bran and Jon again. Luckily, she had Jon and Maester Luwin to keep her company.
She spent the rest of her time caring for Moonmare and walking with Meraxes, taking the direwolf with her to the Godswood. The Godswood was often half empty, with only Northern men (if there were any) there: it was a perfect place to read in peace, pet Meraxes, and practice with her bow and dagger (even if alone).

For three days in a row, fortunately, she did not run into Sandor: she was still ashamed of what had happened three nights before at the tavern. She should have apologized to him, but she was ashamed to even open that conversation. Every now and then, she saw him intent on following Prince Joffrey like a… well, like a hound. Sometimes, she saw him in the Great Hall – often sitting alone –, eating and drinking, and she wondered how he could not be as fat as King Robert. She had learned that he too had initially been there at the King's welcoming feast, sitting at the long table of the King's soldiers, and then left half-drunk after being dismissed by Prince Joffrey due to “lack of threats, take the rest of the evening off, dog.”
The day before the hunt, Lyra and Jon wanted to watch the training between the Stark boys and the Baratheon princes. There was a covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep where you had a view of the whole yard. Directly below them, in fact, there was the training yard with stands around it. It was there that Lyra and Jon, accompanied by Ghost and Meraxes, looked down to see the “fight”. 
Bran and Prince Tommen were ridiculously padded (especially the prince), and the fight went on for quite some time; the heavy padding made their movements awkward. Ser Rodrik Cassel watched them carefully, occasionally correcting some slashes and parries. Lyra saw Robb and Theon Greyjoy cheering for Bran from the stands.
Lyra also noticed Prince Joffrey (with the Hound at his side) on the other side of the stands, watching the training in silence. Joffrey stood with his arms folded, looking quite bored as usual. They were surrounded by some King’s men and young squires. Lyra decided she couldn't stand Prince Joffrey very much.
The Hound seemed to notice that he was being watched, turned slightly, looked at Lyra and Jon for a second with a raised eyebrow, then went back to looking stoically ahead.
     « Do you think the Hound accompanies Joffrey to take a shit too? » Jon said to her under his breath.
Lyra laughed, hiding her laughter with a hand over her mouth. « Yes, and I think he even holds his hand while he pushes. »  
     « Ha! You are disgusting. » Jon said laughing.
     « You started it, you dumbass! »  Lyra punched him.
Meraxes and Ghost suddenly yelped. Lyra and Jon turned to find Arya and Nymeria coming towards them. The three direwolves sniffed at each other wagging their tails happily.
     « And you? Shouldn't you be at your sewing lessons? » Lyra said to Arya, smirking.
     « I wanted to see them fight. » Arya answered. Jon and Lyra smiled.
     « Come here, then. » Jon said to their half-sister. Arya stood between them to watch the training, but when she saw that Bran and Tommen were there instead of Robb and Joffrey, she snorted. Meanwhile, Jon ruffled her hair. Nymeria, Ghost, and Meraxes were playing on the bridge behind them.
     « Why aren’t you down in the yard? » Arya asked Jon. He gave her a half smile.
     « Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes. Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords. » Jon answered.
     « Oh… » Arya said, a little ashamed. 
Lyra pinched Arya’s cheek lightly, smiling. « A bit like our sewing lessons. A bastard can't do cross-stitch in front of the princess, dear Arya. » Arya smiled, happy by Lyra's attempt to lighten the conversation.
They watched Bran, their little brother, whack at Tommen.
     « I could do just as good as Bran. He’s only seven. I’m nine. » Arya stated. Jon looked her over with all his fourteen-years-old wisdom. 
     « You’re too skinny. » He said. He took her arm to feel her muscle, then he sighed a shooked his head. « You’re skinnier than Lyra. I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind to swing one. »
     « I was as thin as her when I was her age. »  Lyra defended Arya.
     « I know. You're still terrible with a longsword, tho. »  Jon told her, laughing. Lyra crossed her arms, frowning.
     « Maybe. But I can use a shortsword or a bastard sword, though. Plus, I'm very fast! And Arya is even more agile than me. »
     « Meh… yes, Arya’s more agile than you… » Jon shrugged. « But in my opinion, you're much better with a bow or with a dagger. »
Lyra smiled. « Strength is of little use if you don't have the agility to dodge blows. »
     « And if you don't have the strength, you can't hold a shield or land blows. » Jon stated. Lyra rolled her eyes.
     « All right Arya, starting tomorrow we'll start eating more meat and pushing wheelbarrows of stones around the courtyard. »
Arya laughed, continuing to watch the fight between Bran and Prince Tommen.
     « You see Prince Joffrey? » Jon asked them.
     « Yes. What about Joffrey? » Arya asked.
     « Look at his shield and at the arms of his surcoat. » Jon suggested.
Prince Joffrey's shield was a kite shield of steel emblazoned with gold, of an excellent workmanship. It was divided in half: on one side was the coat of arms of House Baratheon, with the crowned black stag on a gold field. On the other, was the golden lion of the Lannisters on a red field. His surcoat, also adorned with excellent gilded needlework, was also divided in half in the same manner as the shield. The men around him were part Lannister soldiers and part Baratheon soldiers, Lyra noted. Sandor Clegane wore his usual dark armor, with the three running hounds etched on his breastplate. He did not wear his distinctive helmet.
     « The Lannisters are proud. » Jon observed. « You’d think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother’s House equal in honour to the King’s. »
     « The woman is important too! » Arya protested.
     « I agree, » Lyra added. « I find it a really nice initiative on the prince’s behalf. »
Jon chuckled. « Perhaps you should do the same thing, little sister. » He said to Arya. « Wed Tully to Stark in your arms. » 
     « A wolf with a fish in his mouth? » It made Arya laugh. « That would look silly. Besides, is a girl can’t fight, why should she have a coat-of-arms? »
Jon shrugged. « Girls get the arms but not the swords. Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, little sister. »
     “And bastard girls get none of these.” Lyra thought bitterly.
Suddenly a scream rose from the courtyard below: Tommen fell to the ground, trying to get up, but unable to because of that cumbersome padded armor. Ser Rodrik called the end of the fight between Bran and Tommen, and told two men to help the little prince up.
     « Well fought. » Ser Rodrik said to the two young boys. « Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round? »
     « Gladly. » Robb said, moving forward eagerly.
Joffrey moved into the sunlight in response to Ser Rodrik’s summons; his hair shone like spun gold. Again, he looked bored. “He would be a very handsome lad,” Lyra thought. “If only he didn't have that contemptuous and haughty expression… I’d gladly slap him in the face.”
     « This is a game for children, ser Rodrik. » Joffrey said in a bored monotone.
Theon Greyjoy gave a sudden bark of laughter. « You are children. » He said derisively. Lyra smirked at Theon's comment: he was often a jerk, but in this case he was right.
     « Robb may be a child. » Joffrey stated. « I am a Prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword. »
     « You got more swats than you gave, Joff. » Robb said, sneering. « Are you afraid? » Lyra smiled at Robb's witty reply. Just then, the Hound turned to them for a second, glaring, then he turned his attention back to Robb and Ser Rodrik.
Prince Joffrey looked at Robb. « Oh, terrified. You’re so much older… » Some of the Lannister men laughed. Jon looked down on the scene with a frown. « Joffrey is truly a little shit. » He told to Lyra and Arya.
     « What are you suggesting? » ser Rodrik asked the Prince.
     « Live steel. »
     « Done, » Robb shot back. « You’ll be sorry. » Lyra watched the scene in silence, worried. It could have ended in a real fight. Fortunately, ser Rodrik put a hand on Robb’s shoulder to silence him. « Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges. »
Joffrey said nothing, but the Hound pushed forward in front of the prince. « This is your Prince. Who are you to tell him he may not have an edge on his sword, ser? »
     « I’m the master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it. »
     « Are you training women here? » the Hound asked him sarcastically. For a moment, Lyra thought Sandor glanced at her. Her jaw instantly clenched. How much she wanted to throw a knife straight into his burned eye... and another one straight into the eye of the Prince.
     « I am training knights, » Ser Rodrick said pointedly. Lyra realized that Ser Rodrik, with that statement, was throwing a dig at the Hound. « They’ll have steel when they’re ready. When they’re of an age. »
The Hound looked down at Robb. « How old are you, boy? »
     « Fourteen. » Robb said. The hound sneered. 
     « I killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword. » Lyra rolled her eyes at the hound’s response. Literally no one had asked him.
She could see Robb bristle; his pride was wounded. He turned on Ser Rodrik.
     « Let me do it. I can beat him. »
     « Beat him with a tourney blade, then. » Ser Rodrik said. 
Joffrey shrugged. « Come and see me when you’re older, Stark. If you’re not too old. » There was a laughter from the Lannister men. Robb’s curses rang through the yard. Arya and Lyra covered their mouths in shock. Theon Greyjoy seized Robb’s arm to keep him away from the prince. 
Joffrey faked a yawn and turned to his younger brother.
     « Come, Tommen. » He said. « The hour of play is done. Leave the children with their frolics. »
That brought more laughter from the Lannisters and more curses from Robb. Ser Rodrik’s face was red with fury, and Theon kept Robb locked in an iron grip until the princes and their party were safely away. 
     « The show is done. » Jon said. He bent to scratch Ghost behind his ears. 
Arya and Jon run away with their direwolves; Arya rushed to her chambers with particular haste, fearing a scolding from Septa Mordane.
Lyra and Meraxes remained for a little longer on the covered bridge; Lyra continued to watch Robb and Theon in the courtyard, frowning. Robb was still furious. She sighed and turned to Meraxes, stroking her.
She decided she no longer felt guilty towards Sandor Clegane. “To hell with him and Prince Joffrey,” Lyra thought, as she headed to her rooms.

Chapter Text

« Somebody cut out your eyes, you refuse to see.
Ah, somebody cut out your heart, you refuse to feel.
And you live in a shell, 
you create your own hell,
you live in the past and talk about war.
And you dig your own grave, yeah.
But it's a life you can save,
So stop getting fast, it's not gonna happen.
And you'll cry but you'll never fall, no, no, no.
You're building a wall,
Gotta break it down, start again.
No, no, no, it won't happen to us.
We've lived our lives, basically we've been good men.
So stop talking of war,
'Cause you know we've heard it all before,
Why don't you go out there and do something useful?
Oh, listen to the man in the liquor store,
He yelling “anybody want to drink before the war?” »

     Sinead O’Connor, Drink Before the War (1997).

── 𝓒𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓵𝔂𝓷 ──
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓌𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒾𝓇𝑒𝓌𝑜𝓁𝓋𝑒𝓈.

It had been almost a tenday since her little Bran's accident. And he still hadn't woken up. Catelyn wondered if her dear child would ever wake up. That damned day of the hunting trip... Ned, his men, the King and his contingent returned in a hurry as soon as a messenger brought them the news of Bran's fall from the Broken Tower.
Catelyn, since then, had stayed day and night next to Bran, next to his bed. She barely felt like eating or sleeping anymore. Two days before, she had absentmindedly looked at herself in the mirror as she went to rinse her face at the basin at the corner of Bran's room: she had lost a lot of weight, hard dark circles adorned her face, and a few gray hairs were starting to appear on her fiery auburn head. She looked like she had aged ten years, and only two ten-days had passed.
From the day of the accident, the King decided that he would stay longer at Winterfell, to respectfully support her and Ned's mourning. Many men already gave Bran up for dead, but Catelyn prayed day and night, to both the old gods and the new: she was convinced that sooner or later her little child would awaken. Otherwise, he would be dead by now, right?
Not that there was any chance of a peaceful sleep, actually: Bran's direwolf howled desperately day and night, and the other direwolves often joined him too.

Catelyn’s head throbbed: from sleep, from fasting, from desperation. She wanted to be left alone with her son, yet people came and went often, offering to replace her or bringing her food and drink. One day even Ned’s bastard daughter Lyarra came into the room with some medicine and spare bandages for Bran.
     « Maester Luwin is doing some calculations on the masterbook, so he asked me to tend to Bran’s wounds today, my Lady... » Lyarra said to her. Catelyn pressed her lips together angrily and shooed her away, telling her she would change the bandages herself and to not dare show up again. The last people she wanted to see were her husband’s bastard children. “She should have fallen. Either she or Jon. Or both. Not my little, sweet Bran…” Catelyn thought. Then she regretted it immediately… maybe. On one hand, they were just two younglings. On the other, she saw her husband's face in them. Especially in Jon. It had been years, but she still couldn't accept them.

Catelyn's paranoia and fears grew day by day: the night she received that secret letter from her sister Lysa Tully, Jon Arryn's widow, she had a strange lump in her throat. The same feeling she had since Bran fell from the Broken Tower. “Bran never fell. Never, never, never.” Cat thought as she assembled a protective statuette of the seven Gods.
Bran would certainly not go to King's Landing with Ned and his sisters now. Even if he had woken up, he might never be able to walk again; or so Maester Luwin told her. He would have stayed with Robb and Rickon, and with her. Protected within the thick walls of Winterfell.

Catelyn argued with Ned the night they received the warning letter from Lysa: she had accepted for years that the two bastards lived with them, under the same roof. But no, that was enough. Without Ned, she had demanded that the two of them would go away too. Apparently, the bastard boy would join the Night's Watch accompanied by Benjen Stark. As for Lyarra, however... that night she and Ned had agreed that Catelyn would find her a husband as soon as Ned left for King's Landing, freeing herself of her presence.
But right now, her priority was to Bran, not finding a husband for a bastard. She had to think of her son's health and well-being.
     « What do you intend to do, then? » Catelyn asked Ned the night before.
     « There is no choice but to leave her at Winterfell, Cat. » Ned sighed. « As soon as Bran recovers... »
     « I don't want her here. I'm sorry but I refuse. » Catelyn interrupted him. « Find her a place somewhere else. But here, at Winterfell, I don't want your bastard children. Not anymore. » Catelyn was harsh with her husband, perhaps too harsh, but Ned seemed to understand her desperation.
     « I... I think the only other option is to take her with me to King's Landing. Once I'm settled, I'll find her a good husband and arrange a betrothal. »
Catelyn sneered, but her face was angry. « A bastard girl at the King's court? Ned, this is ridiculous. Find her any petty lord in the North and marry her within the week. »
Ned shushed her, frowning. « She's still my daughter, Cat, whether you like it or not. Even if she's a bastard, I won't marry her off to just anyone. I'll talk to the King, and if he'll agree to host my illegitimate daughter in King's Landing, then I'll proceed with my plan. If not, I'll find another way. »

Catelyn's lips tightened at that answer. She still didn't look at Ned, her husband, and she continued to moisten the dry lips of little Bran. She didn't understand why in the Seven Hells these two bastard children were important to her husband: she too, Lady Catelyn Tully, eldest daughter of Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun, had not married for love but for a political alliance. She should have married Ned's older brother, before he died at the hands of the Mad King. She had been the key to an alliance between the North and the Rivermen, as her sister Lysa had been for the alliance with the men of the Vale by marrying the old Lord Jon Arryn.
She, a woman of high lineage, had not chosen a husband, nor had she ever met Ned’s brother before the day of their betrothal, when he had challenged the young Petyr Baelish. And, after his death, she had met Lord Eddard Stark directly on the day of their wedding. She never had the chance to argue with her father's choices. She never had the change to made a choice for herself.
Yet, Ned wanted to find a “good husband” for his bastard daughter, and even wanted to take her with him to King's Landing instead of his legitimate son Brandon Stark.
     « The important thing is that your children disappear by the time you leave. » she said. « Only the gods know if Bran will survive, and how. I don't have the strength to think about your illegitimate children too, Ned. »
     « I see, my Lady. I promise. I will speak to King Robert. Surely, he will understand. » Ned bowed slightly, and kissed Catelyn on the head. « Please get some rest now, my dear. I can stay with Bran. »
     « No, Ned. Please. Just… leave me alone. »
     « As you wish, Cat. If you need anything… »
     « I know. » Cat replied sharply, without taking her eyes off her son's slim and pale face.

── 𝓛𝔂𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓪 ──
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓌𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒾𝓇𝑒𝓌𝑜𝓁𝓋𝑒𝓈.

     « I’ll... do what?! » Lyra said in disbelief to her father.
Lord Stark had entered his daughter Lyra's room that evening, while she had changed into her nightgown and was getting ready for bed. Meraxes, the white direwolf, greeted Ned cheerfully at the door.
     « I spoke to King Robert this afternoon, my dear. It wasn't easy to convince him, I mean, it wasn't easy to convince Queen Cersei, actually. But given the... delicacy of this situation, they agreed to let you accompany me and the girls to King's Landing. »
     « But... so I'm their guest? How is that possible? I mean... I'm just an illegitimate daughter, Father. How did you convince the King? »
Ned smiled and sat on the bed next to Lyra. Lyra noticed that it was a melancholy smile, not his usual caring smile. « Yes, you will be their guest. You will stay in the rooms that were supposed to be Bran's. I simply told the King that I would accept the Hand title only on these terms. The reason is... well, you see, Lady Catelyn... she is very shaken by this whole situation and does not believe she has the... strength to look after you as well. She has asked me to send you away from Winterfell. »
     « She does not want me around her, you want to tell me. » Lyra said, frowning.
Ned put a hand on her shoulder, his gaze fixed on the ground. « Dear daughter, I... I will speak frankly with you. I know you have the strength and intelligence to understand. Not all wives would have accepted the presence of illegitimate children raised alongside their legitimate ones. She accepted you and Jon as long as I was there for her. As long as I was there to comfort her and accommodate her doubts and fears. But now, I cannot force her to look after you when her son is ill and she is so weak, both physically and mentally. »
     « I can understand, Father. » Lyra sighed. « But what will I do in King's Landing? I have heard that the Queen barred King Robert's bastard children from entering, and that she would kill them if they so much as showed up at court. I... I am afraid. »
Ned looked at her sympathetically and smiled. « The Queen will not kill you, my dear. You are still my daughter, the daughter of the Hand of the King. You are not the bastard daughter of King Robert, I remind you. » He laughed softly. « It will be difficult for you. King's Landing is a very large city and it is different from Winterfell. The Red Keep is full of people, and not all of them can be trusted. However, you are my daughter. You will lodge with me, Arya and Sansa in the Hand's Tower, and I will bring with me a contingent of loyal northern men from Winterfell. You will not have to be afraid, you will be protected and safe. Once I'm settled, we'll discuss about what to do with your future. All you have to do in the meantime is... avoid causing trouble. » he smiled at her. « So, no night raids at the taverns of Flea Bottom. Am I being clear? »
Lyra looked at him incredulously. « You... how... »
Ned rolled his eyes. « I've known since day one you left the walls through the servants' exit. I may be old and very busy, but I'm not stupid nor blind. »
Lyra continued to stare at him with wide eyes. « But... why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you forbid me? »
Ned shrugged, smiling. « You remind me so much of your Aunt Lyanna. I knew it would be useless. »
Ned rose from the bed and kissed her head. « The King wants to leave Winterfell within five days at maximum. And only the Old Gods know how much it cost us to host the Royal Contingent for almost a month, Maester Luwin is going crazy with the accounting books. By the way, thank you for helping him. You have little time to pack your things, so I advise you to hurry. »
With that, he left the room.

The first thing Lyra did the next morning, even before having breakfast, was burst into Jon's room and tell him everything.
     « Every day I'm happier that I chose to go to the Wall with uncle Ben. » Jon said laughing.
     « Why? Wouldn't you have come to King's Landing? »
     « It's a rat’s den. And apparently the city smells like shit. You'll have to be careful, sister. » Jon came closer, smiling. « That means we'll have even less chance of seeing each other again, with you so far south. »
Lyra took his hands. « Yeah. You… and Robb, and Theon. And little Rickon and Bran. I'll miss you all. I'll be careful, I promise. No more bullshit... »
     « Right. No more bullshit. » Jon hugged her tightly. Then he spoke again. « Have you had a chance to visit Bran? »
     « Yes, rarely, when Old Nan replaces Catelyn. Every three days or so Cat give helself the luxury of a bath, so Old Nan goes to watch Bran. I take the opportunity to go and change his bandages. Hodor comes to call me and I know I have less than an hour. »
Jon crossed his arms in annoyance. « Why didn't you ever warn me? »
     « I can barely have time to take care of Bran's wounds, I never had time to come and call you! »
     « But Catelyn does change his bandages, right? »
     « Yes, but... I'm better at it! And then I want to see Bran, talk to him, even if he can't answer me. Sorry, big brother, I didn't think to warn you. Catelyn won't let you in? »
     « Of course not. She kicked me out, saying I should have fallen instead of him. » Jon said angrily.
Lyra sighed. « She's grieving. Don't mind what she says. »
     « Please... she's been treating us like shit for our whole lives. »
     « I know, Jon… »
     « I've always just… wanted to have a real mother, Lyra. »
     « Me too. I wish I could have known her, even if for just a second. Still, I'm glad I have you. You’re my family. »
Jon smiled bitterly. « Soon the Night’s Watch will be my family. »
Lyra shrugged. « It's Uncle Benjen's too, but he comes to visit us anyway, from time to time. Sooner or later, I will return to the North and get married, knowing our lord father. I will invite you to my wedding. »
Jon laughed. « I can't imagine you married to anyone. »
     « And why not? » Lyra frowned.
     « You're stubborn, wild and quite temperamental. »
     « Just like you! »
     « And I, in fact, will join the Night's Watch and take a vow of celibacy. »
Lyra rolled her eyes. « I'll have to find myself a more stubborn and temperamental husband than I am, then. »
     « When I capture a wildling, I'll introduce you to him. »
Lyra and Jon spent the next half hour mocking each other, and arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast still laughing. Robb and Theon watched them approach with questioning looks, then joined Jon and Lyra in the teasing.

The best part of those last days at Winterfell was telling her sisters that she would be joining them. Arya practically jumped into her arms with joy, starting a conversation about trainings and knights and dragon skulls in the Red Keep, and Sansa and Jeyne smiled politely. Sansa's eyes lit up when she promised the girl that they would go shopping for new clothes together in King's Landing.
It was now known that Lord Stark had accepted King Robert's offer of betrothal, and Sansa was over the moon at the thought of one day marrying Prince Joffrey. « I'm going to marry the Prince! I'm going to be Queen! » Lyra, however, continued to feel uneasy towards the prince.
Not only for what had happened on the day of training between her brothers and the two princes, in the courtyard of Winterfell. The day before, while helping load one of her trunks onto a cart, she heard the Prince smilingly commenting something to the Hound. After loading the trunk, she hid behind a wall, eavesdropping. They were whispering, so she can only heard snippets of their conversation.
     «...I'd rather die than live like this. It would be an act of mercy to kill him... That stupid wolf hasn't let me sleep a wink for practically two weeks... »
     « You want me to kill him? »
     « Ah! A dog killing a wolf, funny... a bastard at court, do you realize? Did they take us for one of Littlefinger's brothels?... At least her presence will cheer up the garrison, don't you think? Her mother was certainly a fine whore. »
     « Aye. No doubt why the honourable Ned Stark had twins with her. That brother of her looks pretty like a wench. »
Joffrey laughed. « They even say their mother was Ashara Dayne. Can you believe it, dog?... Maybe when I'm king I'll fuck both of them, Sansa and her bastard sister. »
The Hound didn't answer. Or, if he did, Lyra didn't hear him. She felt sick to her stomach, and ran off to her rooms.

Lyra said nothing to anyone about the conversation she had overheard the day before. First, she didn't want to hurt Sansa. And then, above all... she felt... guilty? Yes, guilty. She was a bastard girl; she had to keep a low profile. And yet the prince had noticed her, and had made unchivalrous comments about her... appearance. If only she hadn't dressed like a noblewoman, like her half-sisters, he would never have noticed her. He would never have made those kinds of disgusting comments. And he was right: she didn't belong in the King's Court.
If she had been in the castle that night instead of going out and being seen by the Hound himself with her friend Fjona, perhaps he would have had a different opinion of her. And the Hound was Prince Joffrey's sworn-shield, so he surely must have told him about that night at the tavern in Winter Town.

That day would be her last but one day at Winterfell. King Robert had decided to leave the day after tomorrow, at first light. There was a great commotion in the courtyards and halls of the castle, and many wagons of provisions and personal effects had been prepared and were finishing being loaded. 
That morning Lyra took a long, hot bath, with her beloved essential oils. She had brought quite a few with her for her stay at King's Landing, thanks to the fact that Lady Catelyn was too busy staying with Bran. Meraxes was dozing peacefully next to her, at the foot of the wood tub, on one of the cowhide rugs.

By now, everyone knew that Lord Stark's illegitimate daughter would go with him to King's Landing.
Lyra decided to enjoy her second to last day at Winterfell with Meraxes, taking in the fresh air in the godswood. There was almost never anyone there, and she could train with her wood training sword and her bow safely away from prying eyes. Lately, she had been spending a lot more time than usual at the godswood. She had even found herself praying to the Old Gods for her half-brother Bran wellbeing, crying silently, even though she had never been particularly religious.

Lyra had hung several potato bags and old wooden beer tankards to the branches of one of the weirwood trees at the edge of the park. She had also brought an old training dummy from the yard, half-hiding it under another one of the weirwood trees. Meraxes always kept her company by hunting or napping under the heart tree. She had even trained her to retrieve arrows that fell on the ground or on the lower branches. It was a beautiful, if cold, day that morning. Lyra felt fit after breakfast and that long, hot bath. Meraxes trotted happily beside her. She had brought with her the bow that Theon had given her: she really wanted to take a few shots.
As expected, Meraxes, after less than half an hour of hunting, went to sleep under the heart tree behind Lyra, who in the meantime was practicing archery against the potato bags.
Almost an hour passed, until she heard Meraxes whining happily. Lyra turned, only to find Sandor-fucking-Clegane busy stroking Meraxes on the head. Meraxes, meanwhile, was wagging her tail happily. Which was odd: as sociable as Meraxes was, she was very protective, and rarely let strangers near Lyra.
She remembered the conversation she overheard between Prince Joffrey and the Hound a few days earlier, and a sense of uneasiness made her nauseous. She really didn’t know what to say to him. She wanted to yell at him, but then he would surely find out she had been eavesdropping him and Joffrey. Maybe she should apologize for that evening at the tavern, but she didn’t want to do that anymore. Or maybe she must? She would be going to King’s Landing after all, and it was best not to irritate the Hound or Prince Joffrey. Perhaps the best thing was to say nothing?
The Hound, however, seemed to think that differently.
     « Is she that famous dangerous beast of yours? » Sandor was looking at her, one knee on the ground, cuddling Meraxes in the meantime. She couldn't not answer him, trying to be as polite as possible. She went to rest the bow against the weirwood tree. Then, she turned to Sandor.
     « Her name is Meraxes. She seems to like you. »
     « Aye. I’m a dog, remember? I've never seen a direwolf cub. It's as big as a wolf. »
     « Yes, she is. » Lyra replied, walking over to the direwolf. She patted her fluffy neck. « And she still got a lot of growing to do. Are you here to pray? »
Sandor snorted. « Do I look like a buggin’ septon to you? »
Lyra tried not to roll her eyes at that. « No. But I don't see why a man from the South would come here, at the godswood. Also, septons serve the Seven Gods. Not the Old Gods. »
     « I almost forgot how petulant you were. » Sandor replied to her, getting up from the ground and looking down at her.
     « Happy to remind you from time to time. »
     « Mmh. » Sandor stared at her for a few seconds with his usual icy, almost mocking gaze. « I heard you're coming to King's Landing. »
     « Exactly. » Lyra mentally sighed. She already didn't like where this conversation was going.
     « Will you keep your mouth shut? Or will you make friends with Littlefinger's brothel whores, instead? » Sandor took a step toward her. Lyra unconsciously backed away.
     « I'll be good, if that's what you're worried about. » She answered him, frowning.
     « Good. » He said, taking another step toward her. « I already told you you wouldn't survive two minutes in King's Landing otherwise, remember? »
     « I remember. » Lyra told him, looking into his eyes. She took another step back.
     « You don't seem to get it, though. » Sandor looked up at the sacks of potatoes hanging from the branches of the weirwood tree, full of arrows. Then, he looked back at her. « Southern ladies don't do that. » Sandor took another step toward her.
     « I'm not a lady. » Another step back.
     « Neither do bastards, for all that matter. » Another step forward.
     « What do you want, Clegane?! You think you're scaring me? » Lyra took another step back, but her back hit the weirwood tree. She noticed Meraxes behind him looking at them curiously, alertly.
Sandor approached. Lyra's head reached the middle of his chest, so she had to look up at him. « You better be, little wolf. If you weren't stupid, you would be. You talk too much, you drink too much with your whore friends, you cause trouble, you talk about soldiers' cocks, and you fight like a little squire. All things a bastard at court must not do. »
     « My father, the Hand of the King, will be with me. If he gives me permission, I will continue training. If you like it or not. » Lyra answered him angrily.
Sandor laughed, a rasping, derogatory laugh. He lowered himself, face to face, leaning against the tree with one arm. Lyra could feel his breath on her nose. He had definitely been drinking. “Already drinking, this early in the morning,” she thought. He almost gave her a half smile, then turned stern as usual. « Then pray your gods that your daddy doesn't die like the last Hand of the King did. »
Lyra didn't say anything. She should have stood still, without giving in to the Hound's provocations. Instead, she slapped him on his burned cheek. Sandor took her wrist just a few inches from his face. Meraxes growled, approaching menacingly.
     « The little, bastard girls in King's Landing mustn’t do this, either. » He whispered to her, almost amused, still squeezing her wrist. He was hurting her, but Lyra didn't say a word. Then, Sandor watched Meraxes approach, growling, and released her wrist.
He backed away from Lyra. Meraxes stepped between them, still snarling and baring her teeth at Sandor. For a moment, Sandor looked almost scared.
Lyra patted Meraxes on the head, glaring at Sandor Clegane in the meantime. « Be good, Meraxes, » she told her. Meraxes sat down, still growling at Sandor.
     « Then she is truly dangerous, your beast. » Sandor said, slowly taking another step back. « Remember, little wolf. Keep a low profile. Be quiet. Keep your eyes down. Don't let yourself be noticed. » He said to her, turning slowly. Meraxes stopped growling.
     « Or else? » Lyra said to him, in a low voice. For a moment she thought he didn't hear her.
     « Or else you won't last long. You don't have an important last name like your half-sisters do to protect youself, always remember that. That you’re a bastard. » He said, pausing in his tracks for a moment. After that, he walked out of the godswood.

The rest of that morning was spent furiously slashing the training dummy in the godswood.

Lyra knew that nor Sandor nor Prince Joffrey liked her, and probably not Queen Cersei either, since her lord father had to spend a lot of time convincing the Queen to let her come with him to King's Landing. But to be threatened by the Hound? Under her own castle walls? In the middle of her own godswood?
Lyra continued training until late afternoon; she wasn't hungry, anger had closed her stomach. At some point, Meraxes got bored and left, probably looking for Ghost. She didn’t want to tell anyone about her encounter with the Hound. She couldn’t tell anyone. What would happen, next? Robb, Theon, and Jon would surely face the Hound, and he would kill all three of them in no more than a minute.
For a moment, when Sandor was inches from her face, she was even afraid he would kiss her. Or the Seven know what else. She had heard the dirty talk between him and Prince Joffrey, after all. Luckily Meraxes was with them, or else... who knows what would have happened.
He was like a mad dog with her: he barked a lot, but never bit… for now, at least. She didn't really know him well enough to say something like that but, in part, her instinct told her so. Her rational part was scared, angry at his threats. Her instinct, however, told her something else; it told her that perhaps, behind the barking of that mad dog, there were just warnings. After all, King's Landing was a rat's nest.

During these weeks of the royal contingent's stay, she had been learning about the Clegane brothers. They were from a minor and recently formed house, and it was difficult to find anything in the archives of the Winterfell library. Ser Gregor was certainly the worse of the two (apparently, he had been married three times, and all his three wives had died), but Sandor was certainly no saint. Sandor Clegane was indeed 27 years old, born on 29th April 271 AC (After Conquest). He had started as a squire, killing his first man at the age of twelve, as he was part of Lord Tywin Lannister's host during the infamous Sack of King's Landing. His parents and younger sister all died within a year; since Gregor had inherited the castle, he had never returned there and had sworn fealty to House Lannister. He fought in several wars under the banner of Lord Tywin Lannister. He was considered one of the most dangerous fighters in Westeros. He also fought during the Greyjoy's Rebellion in 289 AC, at just 18. Then, at 19 years old, he was proclaimed sworn-shield to Queen Cersei, and later he became sworn-shield to the (at the time) six-years-old Prince Joffrey. Lyra observed that most men avoided him, and almost all were afraid of him. Women avoided looking at him or being near him. His manner was brusque, his humor cutting. She had even heard him make cruel jokes to Lord Tyrion Lannister. Lord Tyrion would always answer him in kind, but she noted that he never punished him. Perhaps he didn't dare?

Lyra spent the late afternoon cleaning and washing Moonmare, and checking the condition of her hooves with the farrier. It would have taken them more than a month to reach King's Landing; probably closer to two, given the slowness of the Queen's enormous double-decker Royal Coach.
Meanwhile, Ghost, Shaggydog, Nymeria, and Meraxes were playing together in the yard in front of the stables. The direwolf pups were growing bigger every day, and Ghost was the biggest of them all. Lyra wondered if she should take Meraxes to King's Landing: she was an albino direwolf, she would surely be warm in there. And then, she was very attached to her brother Ghost. Maybe she would suffer from the separation? Meraxes would probably be happy to go with Jon and Ghost to the Wall.
And yet, after the threats she received from the Hound, Lyra did not want to be separated from her direwolf even more. Meraxes would defend her, and then she would miss her very much. She loved her pup. Besides, she would not be alone, there would be Lady and Nymeria with her.
No, she couldn't separate herself from Meraxes. Fate had brought them together. She must accompany her and Moonmare on this adventure.
Knowing her Lord father Ned, he would have her married to a lord from the North or the Vale; he had many acquaintances there, and he knew who was honorable and who was not. Lyra honestly didn't like at all the idea of marriage, and she was terrified of having to marry an old and ugly minor lord. But if it was a matter of her own survival...
On the other hand, she wanted to be close to her sisters Arya and Sansa. They would certainly be in less danger than she was, but as an older half-sister Lyra felt it was her duty to keep an eye on them. And if Lord Stark had married her off to someone right away, she couldn't do that. She didn't trust Prince Joffrey, she was worried about her sister Sansa. Sansa was sweet and naive; she didn't want to see her suffer. And Arya loved getting into trouble, she was even worse than her. No, the best course of action was to try to postpone her own betrothal as long as possible, and in the meantime stay in King's Landing to look after her half-sisters.
She would take Meraxes with her, and ask her Lord father if it was possible to continue training with the bow and sword. She would make up some excuse with Ned, like how much she wanted to get to know King's Landing better before she got married, and why not? Maybe even visit Oldtown with its Citadel. She was only 14, so surely Ned would have agreed to make her wait a year or two before finding her a suitable husband. Not to mention that the first few months he would have been too busy with his new occupation. Maybe in the meantime she would have tried to convince Lord Stark to find her a husband in King's Landing, in order to be close to her sister Sansa?

Lyra's head was spinning and spinning and spinning, between worry and maybe the lack of food. She didn't know what to do, only that she had to stay close to Arya and Sansa. She had to defend them, if necessary. And to silence Arya.
Maybe it was better this way. Robb and Theon would be fine in Winterfell, they were now grown men and (almost) responsible. Little Rickon, though... and Bran. She really hoped that Catelyn and Bran would recover, mentally and physically respectively. Rickon needed his mum.
And Jon... may the gods protect him. He would have been together with ex-convicts, thieves and rapists. Luckily, Uncle Benjen was with him. Lyra sighed.

That night, after dinner, Lyra decided she would go say goodbye to Fjona. Fuck the Hound. This was her home, after all. Her home, her rules. Even if she was just a bastard. In King's Landing she wouldn't go for taverns and brothels, but here she did. Fjona was her best friend, she couldn't leave her without saying goodbye.
The dinner was lavish and rich, not like the one on the evening banquet welcoming the King, but for a month rivers of alcohol and abundant food had been swarming in the Great Hall of Winterfell at almost every hour. Lyra was incredibly hungry and filled her plate three times: there were roast turkey, venison with potatoes, a stew that had been boiling and boiling since the day before and melted in the mouth. And then peas and bacon, mashed potatoes, carrots cooked in butter, salad with apples, walnuts, vinegar from the Westerlands and cinnamon. Cream and lemon cakes. Summerwine, northern mead and dark ale. Arbor rosé and dark Dornish wine. When she entered the Great Hall, she saw the Hound drinking (as he usually did) in a bench on the left side of the Hall. So, she sat in a bench on the right side, as far away from the huge man as possible. 
Meraxes was under the table as usual, and every now and then Lyra would hand her a piece of meat or bread. Jon and Ghost joined her shortly after, and by the end of the night Lyra and Jon were both a little tipsy.
At the end of dinner, leaving the Great Hall, Lyra noticed that the seat where the Hound had been sitting was now empty. She prayed the Seven Gods she would not find him at the Winter Town’s tavern again. Maybe he was the one guarding Prince Joffrey tonight, instead of Blount or Trant or Jaime Lannister. Apparently, the Kingsguard sometimes kept watch over the crown prince as well. More often, it was a few Lannister and Baratheon chosen soldiers (and the Hound, of course) who surrounded that blond idiot day and night.

Lyra sneaked into her rooms and changed into one of the (few) changes she had left; most of her clothes and belongings were now packed away in trunks in some wagon. She put on a dark cloak, pulling up her hood, and took her beloved dagger with her. She left Meraxes to rest in her room, then slipped out of the castle.
When she arrived under the Winter Town’s brothel, she hit the glass of the usual window with pebbles. Fjona left the brothel after about 10 minutes and they walked arm in arm to the tavern.
The tavern was definitely less crowded than last time, but almost all the tables were occupied. Luckily, their usual table was free. Fjona and Lyra sat down and began sipping their pint of dark ale with northern whiskey.
     « So it's true? You're abandoning me? »
Lyra blushed. « It wasn't my decision... »
Fjona put her hand over hers. « Ros also left for King's Landing last month. Theon Greyjoy was truly in mourning. If you see her, will you say hello? Ask her how she is. »
Lyra smiled. « Yes, Theon has been in a bad mood for at least a tenday. I wish I could say hello to Ros from you, Fjona. But there are plenty of brothels in King's Landing, and I don't know if I'll be free to leave the Red Keep at will, at night, to go to... I don't know? Flea fucking Bottom? »
Fjona shook her hand. « You're right, it would be dangerous. But if you see her... please, say hello to her. »
     « Of course I will. I hope she's having a good time in King’s Landing. »
Fjona shrugged. « Oh, she's definitely doing more business than me, sweetheart. »
Lyra chuckled. « Why didn't you go to King's Landing? »
     « My home is here, in the North. Besides, there's a lot more competition there. Ros is a pretty girl, red-haired with freckles, she's sure to get noticed there. I'm pretty… standard. Brown eyes, brown hair... you know. »
Lyra rolled her eyes. « You're a stunning girl. I'm sure you'd have lots of customers. »
     « I never said I was ugly, darling. But thank you. » Fjona smiled. « It's just... they like more exotic beauties there. Southern men are weirdos. »
Lyra takes another sip of ale and whiskey. She was already feeling a little dizzy, thanks to the three glasses of summerwine she had had at dinner.
She would really miss Fjona. They didn’t see each other every day, in fact, but every time they did, it was as if they had seen each other the day before. They spent their evenings laughing, drinking, and gossiping. Occasionally they would play dice with some stable boy. Lyra was almost certain that Fjona’s dice were loaded.
This evening was no different: Fjona talked about the slew of clients they had had this month, King's men with the most bizarre requests. Lyra didn't know a single one of them, yet she listened with amusement.
     «...and then Francine almost laughed in his face. He wanted to smell her feet, you know? And do… some other things with them. She was about to refuse when he offered her a gold coin. A gold coin, Lyra! Anyway, apparently cunt isn't that popular in the South... »
Lyra shrugged. « If you think about it, she was very lucky: she got a gold coin and she didn't even have to fuck him. »
     « Aye, a lucky bitch indeed. » replied Fjona, finishing her ale and whiskey. « I, on the other hand, have to fuck Timmy-Three-Minutes almost every day. »
     « I certainly don't envy you. »
     « Yes. And so far, I had no weird request from the King's men. How much I would like to receive a gold coin for my feet... »
Lyra sighed. « I think you deserve another round. Do you still want ale and whiskey? »
     « Of course I do. And tell Marius not to be cheap with the whiskey. » Fjona slapped some coins into Lyra's hand. « And this time it's on me, or rather, it’s on Timmy-Three-Minutes. A parting gift for you. »
     « What? Again?! »
Fjona shrugged. « I told you he can't count. »
     « He'll find out eventually. He's a drunken idiot, but not that stupid... not for that long, anyway. »
     « Don't worry, love. He never realized. » Fjona replied, smirking.
Lyra rolled her eyes. « If you say so... » Lyra walked away toward the counter. Fjona blew her a kiss.

As Lyra was ordering two more ales with whiskey, she saw out of the corner of her eye the Hound entering the tavern. It was impossible not to recognize him given his size and his half-burned face. Lyra turned away, pretending not to notice him. She took the two ales and returned to the table.
She sat down and turned slightly: the Hound had ordered a tankard of beer and was heading towards one of the empty tables. Lyra sighed in relief, for a moment with the fear that the Hound had seen her or worse, would join them. Fjona watched the scene.
     « Is that ugly man still bothering you? »
Lyra sighed. She decided to tell her everything, speaking in a low voice: she told her about the conversation she overheard between Prince Joffrey and the Hound, and about their meeting this morning in the godswood. Fjona listened to her without interrupting, occasionally frowning or widening her eyes. At the end of the story, Fjona finally decided to speak.
     « Wow... I really don't know what to say... that man is literally obsessed. »
     « O-obsessed? »
     « Aye, ‘bout you. Well, at least he has good taste… »
Lyra rolled her eyes. « Again with this nonsense? He's not obsessed with me, nor does he likes me. He literally threatened me this morning. »
Fjona shrugged, smirking. « He's a dangerous man, sure, but I don't think he knows about good manners. He's a brute and he's a soldier, we both know that. From what I know of him, he seemed more... worried. About you. »
     « Worried?! » 
     « Yes, it almost sounded like a warning. Made aggressively, perhaps to make sure you obey him out of fear. » Fjona laughed. « I don't think that brute is used to talking to women. »
     « The comments he made about me with Prince Joffrey, however, say otherwise. »
     « And what do you want him to say to Joffrey? “No look Mr. Prince, you're a rude idiot”? Of course he agreed with him. »
     « Of course not, but he could have not answered him. I really don't understand why you're defending him! » Lyra said, drinking her beer angrily.
     « I'm not defending him; in fact, I think you should stay as far away from that ugly brute as possible. But... » Fjona sighed, taking two swigs of her ale and whiskey. « ... I think he's right. It's horrible to say, but you could be in danger there. Whores talk, you know? Word gets around and reaches all the way up here in the far North. King's Landing is not a city for the kindhearted. And you, being… illegitimate, are less protected than your half-sisters. The people of King's Landing say that Prince Joffrey is a fickle person, as is his mother Cersei. »
     « Um, I see. What about the Hound? What do they say about him? »
     « That he is a dangerous man, loyal to House Lannister. He does everything they tell him to do, same as his brother, who is even worse by the way. They call him “dog” for more than just his emblem. »
Lyra smirked. « You are well informed. What will I do without you in King's Landing? »
     « We whores have to be. And I already know that without me you would be lost, darling. » Fjona smiled. « Speaking of. The Hound has been to the brothel several times during this month... »
     « Uh. Okay. And? » Lyra asked, confused.
     « He always asks about Allyqua the braavosi. She is never happy, she doesn't like his burned face. Luckily for her, he always takes her from behind, like a dog…» Fjona whispered to her. « It's interesting that he's always asking about her, don't you think? »
     « … if you say so. » Lyra didn't understand where Fjona was getting at.
Fjona smirked, her usual almost evil smile. « Well, she looks a bit like you. Almost black hair, eyes... well, she has blue eyes, but they're still light. Fair skin. A little taller than you, but not that much. Not so many tits, ehm- no offense... Of course, unlike you, she is 21… »
     « None taken. I believe it is a coincidence, however. »
     « Maybe... or maybe not. » Fjona said, always smirking. Lyra rolled her eyes. She turned back towards the Hound's table again: he kept drinking, apparently, he was on his second ale already. He was staring at some undefined point on the table, frowning, probably deep in thought. He didn't seem to notice either Lyra or Fjona.

Lyra and Fjona drank their ales in silence for a few minutes, then changed the subject. After about half an hour of alcohol and laughter, the door to the tavern suddenly slammed open. Everyone turned around.
Timmy-Three-Minutes appeared at the door, clearly drunk and angry at the same time, brandishing a half-rusted woodcutter's axe. Lyra and Fjona stiffened, ready to spring from their seats. Timmy-Three-Minutes scanned the tavern for a few seconds, walking inside without closing the door. Marius the innkeeper just stared at him, surprised by the sudden interruption.
Lyra leaned into Fjona's ear, whispering. « Please tell me he's not here for us. »
     « I told you! He can't count! He must be here for someone else... »
Timmy's eyes continued to scan the place, then landed on Lyra and Fjona. His face turned into a red, furious mask, and he charged at them, brandishing his axe.
     « You two! You dirty fucking whores! Give me my fucking money back! »
Lyra and Fjona looked at each other for a moment, then leaped up like gazelles, running for the back door. It was barred.
     « This fat bastard! Don't tell me he was smart enough to barricade the door from the outside! » Fjona screamed, running to a window and throwing it open.
     « Apparently, he was! » Lyra said. She and Fjona rolled out of the window in the fresh snow. Just in time for Timmy-Three-Minutes to catch up to them, leaning out of the window and shouting insults.
He was a fat drunk, so several minutes passed before he climbed out of the window, during which Lyra and Fjona ran through the various alleys of Winter Town.

When they were sure that Timmy-Three-Minutes wouldn't find them (also because they had been running around for almost twenty minutes, and Timmy certainly couldn't handle twenty minutes of running), they lay down on a snowy road, catching their breath. Fjona and Lyra looked at each other for a few seconds, still out of breath, with their hair and clothes full of snow.
     « “He'll never notice”, huh? » Lyra said. Then they burst out laughing like crazy. They laughed for several minutes, lying in the snow, thanks to the adrenaline and the absurd scene at the tavern.
After a while, they caught their breath.
     « Do you think he's back home? » Lyra asked.
     « That drunk fatso? Of course he is. »
     « Do you know where he lives? » Lyra asked her, grinning.
     « Maybe... what do you want to do? »
Lyra stood up and helped Fjona. « I want to give him his money back, of course. »
     « You're crazy. Do you know how much money I stole from him? »
     « No, I have no idea and I don't even want to know. But he only noticed these last ones, it seems. »
Fjona shrugged. « I may or may not have stolen a silver coin from him this time... »
     « You really thought you could get away with it?! A silver coin! »
     « Well, he never noticed the missing copper coins... I thought... well, okay! My mistake! I admit it! »
     « I don't have a silver coin with me... maybe I can get there with my coppers…» Lyra said, peeking into her leather pouch at her belt and counting out the different coins. « Um... they should add up to half a silver coin. »
     « Oh no, don't you dare. I'm the one who stole it, and I'll give that fat guy back the coins. » Fjona started counting her coppers. « Uhm… well… I've got almost half a silver coin in coppers. »
Lyra shrugged. « That means he'll get a bag full of coppers, between you and me. »

The two girls headed toward the outskirts of Winter Town, to a small, wooden house with a half-ruined porch. Outside, near the door, was the rusty axe. There was a dim candle lighting the inside of the house, and even from outside they could hear a huge snoring.
     « Well, I'd say he's in, and he's even dozed off. »
Lyra grinned. « We'll have to wake him up, then. »
After throwing several copper coins at the window of the house, Timmy looked out angrily. A coin hit his nose.
     « What the fuck do you want, you bitches! »
     « Give you your money back, can't you see? » Fjona answered him. « They add up to exactly one silver coin. »
     « You two rude bitches. I swear, if I come out and catch you, I'll fucking kill you, » he muttered, still half drunk.
     « If you don't want them back, then that's okay. » Fjona said, shrugging.
     « Give me the fucking coins without throwing them in the snow, you dirty, fucking-... »
Fjona smiled. « Okay, here. » She threw him a leather bag with the copper coins inside. Timmy-Three-Minutes caught it, opened it, and (pretended to) count the coins.
     « Um. Looks like it's all in there. Okay, you fucking cunt. See you tomorrow, same time. And don't rob me again or I'll break your neck. »
Fjona blew him a kiss as she walked away. « Maybe you could tip me sometime... » Timmy hurled several insults at her, then closed the window and went back into his house.
     « Really? » Lyra asked as they walked away toward the brothel. « You robbed him and he still wants to fuck you? »
Fjona smirked. « I'm irresistible, what can I do? This pussy will be my fortune and my downfall... »
They began to laugh loudly.
When they reached the brothel, Lyra and Fjona shared a very long hug. Fjona kissed her twice on the cheeks. « Please, take care of yourself. »
     « You too, Fj. I'll miss you. »
     « I'll miss you too, my dear. » Fjona replied smiling, a tear rolling down her right cheek. Lyra hugged her again tightly, starting to sob. They stayed like that for a few minutes, hugging each other under the falling snow. Then, they separated. Fjona took her shoulders.
     « Don't do anything foolish, Lyarra Snow. »
Lyra smiled. « I'm not the one who steals silver coins. »
They laughed. And, after another long hug, they went their separate ways.

Lyra went back to the tavern to pick up her cloak that she had left hanging on the chair. She saw that the table where the Hound was sitting was empty. Good: she didn’t want to listen to another of his sarcastic comments. She said goodbye to Marius, he made sure she was okay, and then she left the tavern.
Lyra curled up in her warm cloak, walking toward Winterfell. After a few steps, a large shadow approached her. She turned in fear, one hand on her dagger. It was only the Hound.
     « Are you done making trouble? »
Lyra rolled her eyes, starting to walk again. « I don't want to hear any more threats from you. »
The Hound walked beside her; Lyra noticed that he was almost smiling in amusement. « Threats, you say? I don't remember chasing you with an axe while calling you a whore, little wolf. »
Lyra frowned. « It was a misunderstanding. I didn't steal anything. And anyway, we gave him the money back. »
     « Aye, I know, it was your whore friend who stole the coins. You were there with her, though, drinking ale bought with his stolen money. Anyway, before he climbed out the window, I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him home. »
     « You... did… what? » Lya turned around, surprised.
The Hound grinned, for real this time, his burned lips twitching. « You owe me, little wolf. I took him to his house and threatened him. He was about to shit himself, that drunken fatso. You should thank me, he was particularly determined to chase you all through Winter Town and kill you with an axe; if not today, then tomorrow at the brothel where your little friend works. »
Lyra looked at him, narrowing her eyes. « And why would you do that? »
The Hound shrugged. « I was bored. I felt like threatening someone. Anyway, he won't do anything to that whore friend of yours. »
Lyra continued walking, looking straight ahead. « Well... I... thank you. »
     « Thanks aren't enough. Avoid doing this bullshit in King's Landing, I won't be able to do anything but witness your beheading, there. »
     « You already told me about it this morning. » Lyra replied, rolling her eyes.
     « And yet, not even 12 hours later, you were chased with an axe by a drunken fat bugger. »
Lyra laughed. « Well... I have to admit it was funny. »
     « Aye, it was, little wolf. But don't you ever do that again. »
They walked in silence to Winterfell. Lyra swore she saw the Hound smile for a moment.

Chapter Text

« He stood like Jesus
He smelt like heaven
His eyes were winter
Our story is the march of the lonely
The march of the lonely
The march of the lonely
Come to me in my darkness
My dark hero, my tall stranger
Tears of sweat cry from your body
The strength and the cruelty in your gentle nature
We honour the silence, between ourselves
Between ourselves
We honour the silence, between ourselves
Between ourselves. »

     Death in June, The Honour of Silence (1985).

Notes: Lyra, Moonmare, Meraxes and her dagger.

── 𝓛𝔂𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓪 ──
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒.

The last night at Winterfell was bittersweet. Lyra spent her time with Jon, Robb, and Theon, drinking and playing cards in the Great Hall. Robb, behind his beautiful smile, had an almost nostalgic look in his eyes. And Theon... well, Theon was heartbroken by her departure (much less by Jon's).
     « My dear, what will I do without you? » Theon told her, taking her by her hand on the table. « You lit up the halls of Winterfell every time you walked... I can still smell you... »
Jon and Robb both rolled their eyes. Lyra laughed. « You can smell me because I'm still here, Theon. »
Theon responded with his usual, hearty laugh.
     « First Ros, now you... what will I do now? I feel lost… »
Lyra shrugged. « Well, you still have Robb. »
     « Ew? No? thank you? » Theon replied snorting.
     « Are you saying I'm unattractive, Greyjoy? » Robb glared at him, crossing his arms. In the meantime, however, he was smiling. Theon laughed again.
     « No, absolutely not. Princess Myrcella would have to object... And you have beautiful red hair, by the way. I just don't like what's between your legs, though. »
     « You don't like it or are you jealous of it? »
Jon laughed, continuing to drink during this squabble.
     « Jealous? Not really, Stark. Maybe you don't remember exactly what my dick looks like. But if you really want to compete... » Theon said, starting to undo his pants.
     « Really? Here? » Lyra exclaimed, pretending to be shocked. 
Theon refastened his trousers. « All right. We'll save cocks sizes for later. We have a Lady here with us. »
Lyra chuckled. « Still, I think you'll survive without me, Greyjoy. »
     « Um... » he replied thoughtfully. « Perhaps. But I'll be very sad, Snow. »
     « Me too. » Lyra replied, smiling sweetly.
     « Will you watch the girls for me? » Robb asked.
     « Especially Arya… » Jon added.
     « Of course I will. » Lyra answered. She turned to Robb. « Will you watch Bran and Rickon for me? »
     « You should have no doubt about that, sister. » Robb said, smiling.

Lyra had always admired Robb. And he was still an inspiration to her, as was her brother Jon. Robb was more handsome and strong every day; he had a fierce and strong character, but he was fair and genuine, and had a great sense of humor. He was protective and loyal, smart, but never arrogant like Theon sometimes was. Ned Stark was more introverted than him, and she didn't know anyone who didn't get along with Robb. Any lady would be lucky to have him as a husband.
Lyra would have given her life for Robb; for all the Stark children, in fact, but Robb in particular. It was he who insisted to Ser Rodrik Cassel and their Lord Father to let her join their sword and bow trainings, when they were children. It was always her, Jon, and Robb. Together. And, well, Theon, of course.
Robb and Arya were the only ones who considered her and Jon as their true blood brothers.

When Lyra returned to her room that evening, she took a long, hot bath and changed into her nightgown. Before falling asleep, she thought about Robb, Theon, and little Rickon and… Bran. And Jon. Her beloved twin brother Jon. He too would be leaving tomorrow with Uncle Benjen and Tyrion Lannister, the Imp; apparently, he was curious about the Wall and Castle Black. She wondered when she would see her brothers again, especially Jon. She cried for a long time, her face on the pillow to stifle the sobbing.

She was about to fall asleep when a knock on the door to her rooms made her wince. She rose to her feet, wiping away her tears quickly with the sleeve of her nightgown, and walked to the door. When she opened it, a smiling Theon slipped into her chambers, all the while standing with his shoulders straight and his arms behind his back. He was graceful and cocky even as he was sneaking around the castle. 
     « I can come in, can't I? » asked her Theon, still smiling. Meraxes, lying on the bed, stared at Theon for half a second and went back to sleep, snoring.
     « You have already entered, Greyjoy. No point in asking. » Lyra answered him, feigning annoyance. Meanwhile, she tried to avoid Theon's gaze: she had no desire to show him that she had just cried her eyes out.
Theon answered her with a hearty laugh. Lyra motioned him to hush, with her finger in front of her lips. « Be more quiet! Jon is sleeping in the next rooms, I'd like to remind you. » She whispered to him.
     « I know well where Jon Snow sleeps, I have lived in this castle for ten years, you know. » Theon replied to her in amusement, lowering his tone of voice. Lyra rolled her eyes.
     « So? What’s the matter? Why are you here at this time of the night? »
     « Sit down, close your eyes, and you'll find out. I want to give you something…» Theon told her, continuing to hold his arms behind his back with quiet composure. 
     « Give me something? » asked Lyra as she headed to sit on the bed, closing her eyes. « Couldn't you have given it to me this evening, during supper? »
     « No, I couldn't have, » Theon answered her as he approached her. Lyra could hear the faint sound of his footsteps on the stone floor. « It's something just for you. Jon and the girls would get jealous, wouldn't they? Open your hands. »
Lyra obeyed him, and two little... velvet boxes? fell on her palms. « Now, open your eyes. » Theon said to her. Two purple jewelry boxes were revealed. Lyra opened the boxes, first the smallest and then the largest. She then looked at the objects in her hands: there was a pair of earrings, two very fine silver pendants with teardrop-shaped amethysts. And then there was a delicate necklace, with a small silver pendant in the shape of a direwolf's head. The eyes of the direwolf were also decorated with two little pale amethysts. Lyra's eyes widened: they were beautiful jewelry. « But... jewels? They are made of... »
     « Pure silver, with small pale amethysts from Lys. » Theon answered her with a simple matter of facts, as if he had just bought her a leather chocker at the Winter Town’s market.
     « You are insane, » Lyra scolded him. « They must have cost you a fortune. »
Theon shrugged. « No matter. For you, my dear, any price is a mere trifle. »
Lyra gently closed the jewerly boxes, with a sense of guilt. « But...I cannot accept them, Theon. Besides, I don't have any gifts to give you. I am sorry. »
Lyra got up from the bed and handed him the jewelry boxes, stretching out her arms. Theon frowned at her, then smiled again. He took her hands with the jewerly boxes and brought them close to her chest again. « Of course you can accept them. They are a gift; I want nothing in return. » Then he added, smirking. « Although I would gladly accept a thank-you kiss. »
Lyra rolled her eyes smilingly. She leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek, but Theon was quick and at the last second turned his head, and while encircling her waist he gave her a passionate kiss on the mouth. Her eyes went wide, not expecting this turn of events.
After the kiss Theon moved his face away a little, his hands still on her hips. « Now, I can say I am satisfied. »
Lyra looked at him contritely; however, she did nothing to move away. « Really, Theon? A kiss on the mouth? » she said, blushing, pretending to be angry. She had always found Theon to be a handsome fella: tall, slender, olive-skinned, with an athletic body, dark hair and brilliant dark, almost black eyes, always smiling and somewhat mischievous. He was also a womanizer, however, and this had always kept her from yielding to his advances. Theon burst out laughing. « I apologize, Snow, I couldn't help myself, you’re always very beautiful. » he said, after which he pulled away and gave her a chaste kiss on the hand. « I won't do it again, I swear it on my Greyjoy honor. I'm sorry if you didn't like it and if I was inappropriate. »
     “Oh, fuck it.” thought Lyra, approaching him again. This time it was she who came closer and grabbed him by the neck to lower him, giving him a kiss on the mouth. The kiss lasted much longer than the first, during which Theon also used his tongue. Lyra felt a knot in her belly and some warmth, and she pulled away from Theon before it went any further. “My first kiss with Theon Greyjoy, may the Seven forgive me…” Lyra thought to herself, half amused.
Theon kissed her softly on the nose and pulled away a few inches. « Have you been crying, my lady? Your eyes are red. »
     « No, Theon. » Lyra lied. « I was just sleeping and your knocking on the door woke me up suddenly. Anyway, » Lyra continued, changing the subject. « I hope you enjoyed my humble farewell gift. »
     « I couldn't have asked for anything better. » Theon answered her sincerely, smiling warmly. He kissed her hand again.
     « Now go, » Lyra told him, walking away and crossing her arms, but smiling playfully all the while. « Today, I don't want to see you anymore. You've already been a womanizer enough. » Theon bowed with a smile, exiting the room nimbly as he walked backwards, still staring at Lyra.

When Theon left, Lyra curled up in bed and soon fell asleep, with a smile on her lips.

Lyra woke early that morning. She put on one of the few changes of clothes she had left in her rooms (along with the heavy winter clothes, useless in King's Landing warm weather). Unlike her sisters Arya and Sansa (and, well, Jeyne Poole and Septa Mordane) she would be riding on Moonmare's back; a bastard was not invited to ride in the royal carriage with Queen Cersei and Princes Tommen and Myrcella. She would join her sisters on the rare occasions when they were not travelling with the Queen. A carriage had been arranged (much smaller than the royal one, of course) drawn by four horses. Inside, there were two leather-covered benches facing each other, and several cushions, as well as a small table, to make the girls and the Septa comfortable to travel on.
Lyra didn't particularly like Jeyne Poole, she found her rather shallow and, moreover, it was because of her that Arya was now called “Horseface”. Sansa is a sweet and kind girl, but when she was with Jeyne, she could end up making snide comments about Arya or Jon. Or about her, not that Lyra knew that. Sansa was elegant enough not to insult her to her face, at least. However, Vayon Poole, the steward of Winterfell, would follow her Lord father to King's Landing, and so his daughter Jeyne had also joined the “trip”. Needless to say, Arya hated her.
Lyra put on black fabric trousers, paired with a white chemise and a black, short padded-leather pelicon over it, closed with a dark leather belt. On her feet she had high, padded black leather boots that reached above her knees. They had a small heel to help her grip the stirrups. Over her clothes, she wore a long black fur cloak, and dark leather gloves that were also lined with fur. The North was a large (and cold) Region, and it would take them weeks to cross it.
She decided to keep with her only her dagger, well hidden underneath her cloak. Her bow and quiver were in one of her trunks of personal effects. She didn't want to attract too much attention by riding around with her weapons in plain sight. It would be ridiculous.

That morning Lyra headed to Bran’s chambers, for a final farewell to her brother. With Lady Stark by his side for the most part, she had rarely been able to visit him. When she arrived, she found the door to his room open; Lady Catelyn and her twin brother Jon were inside, Jon beside Bran’s bed, whispering his goodbyes. She saw a tear roll down his cheek. Meanwhile, outside the window, the direwolf howled again. The wolf that Bran had not had time to name.
     « Bran, » Jon said, « I’m sorry I didn’t come before. I was afraid. » Another tear rolling down his cheek. « Don’t die, Bran. We’re all waiting for you to wake up. Me and Robb and the girls, everyone… »
Lady Stark was watching him, silently. Lyra entered the room. Lady Stark turned: her gaze was blank, her eyes tired. She said nothing. Lyra slowly approached Bran and Jon, beside the bed. She reached out and lightly stroked little Bran's forehead. Tears began to flow from her eyes.
     « I have to go now, » Jon said. « Uncle Benjen is waiting. I’m to go north to the Wall. We have to leave today, before the snows come. » 
Lyra smiled: Bran would have been thrilled at the thought of Jon being with Uncle Benjen at the Wall. She, however, said nothing. She was very sorry that she had to go to King's Landing in his place. She continued to stroke his forehead gently. Jon wiped away his tears and gave his brother a light kiss on his cool lips. Lyra did the same. « I miss you. We all miss you. Please, be strong. » She whispered in his ear.
     « I wanted him to stay here with me. » Lady Stark said softly. Lyra and Jon watched her, wary. She was not even looking at them, she was looking at Bran. She was talking to them, but for a part of her, it was as thought they were not even in the room. 
     « I prayed for it, » she said dully. « He was my special boy. I went to the sept and prayed seven times to the seven faces of God that Ned would change his mind and leave him here with me. Sometimes prayers are answered. »
Jon and Lyra did not know what to said.
     « It wasn’t your fault. » Jon managed to said after an awkward silence.
     « … and he still is your special boy. » Lyra added.
Her eyes found them. They were full of poison. « I need none of your absolution, bastards. »
Jon and Lyra both lowered they eyes. Catelyn was cradling one of Bran’s hands. Jon took the other, squeeze it. Fingers like the bones of birds. « Goodbye. » He said. Lyra came over and kissed Bran on the forehead. 
     « We'll see each other again, I'm sure of it. Goodbye. »
They were at the door when Catelyn called out them. « Jon, Lyarra. » She said. They should have kept going, but she had never called them by their names before. They turned to find her looking at their face, as if she seeing them for the first time.
     « Yes? » Jon asked.
     « It should have been you. » She told them. Then, she turned back to Bran and began to weep, her whole body shaking with the sobs. It was a long walk down the yard, both Jon and Lyra walking close together in silence.

Outside, everything was noise and confusion. Wagons were being loaded, men were shouting, horses were being harnessed and saddled and led from the stables. A light snow had begun to fall, and everyone was in an uproar to be off. Robb was in the middle of it, shouting commands with the best of them. He seemed to have grown of late, as if Bran’s fall and his mother’s collapse had somehow made him stronger. Grey Wind was at his side. 
     « Uncle Benjen is looking for you, » he told Jon. « He wanted to be gone an hour ago. » Then, he turned to Lyra. « And you'd better saddle your mare. »
     « I know, » Jon said. « Soon. Leaving is harder than I thought. »
Lyra looked at them, and new tears welled up in her eyes. Her precious boys…
     « For me too, » Robb said.  He had snow in his fiery hair, melting from the heat of his body. « Did you see him? » Jon and Lyra nodded. 
     « He’s not going to die, » Robb said. « I know it. »
     « You Starks are hard to kill. » Jon agreed. Lyra gave them a weak smile.
Robb probably knew something was wrong. « My mother… »
     « She was… very kind. » Jon told him. 
Robb looked relieved. « Good. » He smiled. « The next time I see you, you’ll be all in black. » then, Robb turned to Lyra, who was dressed in all black. « But you already are. Change of plans? Will you go to the Wall with Jon? »
Lyra laughed. « Unfortunately not. » she said, squeezing Jon's arm affectionately in the meantime. Jon forced himself to smile back. « Black was always my color. How long do you think it will be? When we’ll see each other? » Jon said.
     « Soon enough. » Robb promised. He pulled both Jon and Lyra to him and embraced them fiercely. « Farewell, Snow. »
Jon hugged them back. « And you, Stark. Take care of Bran. »
     « I will. » They broke apart. « Uncle Benjen said to send you to the stables if I saw you. » Robb said.
     « I have one more farewell to make, » Jon replied. Then he turned to Lyra. « After yours, of course. »
Jon suddenly pulled her into a bone-breaking hug. They both began to sob. « Take care of... well, yourself. » he said, smiling through his tears. « You’re even worse than Arya sometimes. »
     « That’s impossible. Don’t lie. » Lyra smiled. They break their hug. « And you, try not to freeze to death up there. »
     « I will try not to. » He said, smiling. Before walking away, he gave her a kiss on the forehead.
Lyra watched her twin brother walk away towards the armory. Robb stared at her, smiling. Before they spoke again, Robb and Lyra turned as they heard footsteps in the soft snow approaching. Rickon practically jumped into Lyra's arms, sobbing, with Shaggydog after him. Theon and Maester Luwin approached watching them, smiling.
     « Don't go! I don't want to! » Rickon said between one sob and another.
Lyra kissed his head and wiped away his tears. « You know I would have gladly stayed here, little meatball. I promise I'll come back to see you as soon as I can. »
     « Pinky promise? »
     « Pinky promise. I swear to the Old Gods and the New. » Rickon smiled and sniffed, visibly comforted by the promise. When Rickon got out of Lyra's arms, Theon came over and hugged her. « I'll miss you, Snow. I promise to look after Robb. » Their hug definitely lasted a few seconds longer than it should have.
     « Robb will be the one to take care of you, actually. Let’s be real, Theon… » Lyra said, smiling at Theon. Robb burst out laughing. Maester Luwin cleared his throat to keep from laughing, visibly amused by the joke. He walked over to Lyra and squeezed her hands.
     « Lyarra. Thank you for helping me these past months. It's been a pleasure, and I hope to see you again soon. Always be curious and eager to learn. »
     « Thank you so much. For all your teachings. » Lyra smiled. Maester Luwin nodded, and then handed her a leather bag. Lyra opened it. Inside were needles, silk threads, several bandages, a small bottle of pure alcohol, and other miscellaneous concoctions.
     « A first aid kit. »
Lyra grinned enthusiastically. « Thank you very much, Maester Luwin. I hope I never have to use it, though. »
Maester Luwin chuckled.
     « Okay, that's enough. Let her go to the stables so she can saddle that naughty mare of hers. » Robb ordered, smiling. He walked over and gave her one last, huge hug. He kissed her on the head. « Total black doesn't suit you; you look like a Crow but with tits. » he whispered in her ear. Lyra burst out laughing.
     « I'll miss you too, Robb. »
The hug was long, and Lyra swore she felt a tear roll down her older half-brother's cheek. When they pulled away, though, she saw nothing, only his slightly watery eyes.
     « Lyarra Snow. Don't cause trouble. »
     « Who? Me? Never caused trouble in my entire life. » Lyra replied, starting to walk away toward the stables.
     « Of course. Never, ever. » Theon said. Lyra heard Robb and Theon burst out laughing behind her. As she walked away, she felt Theon's gaze on her and she blushed a little at the thought of the night before.

Lyra hurried to get Meraxes, who was playing with Nymeria and Ghost in the Godswood. Bran's direwolf, the one without a name, was watching them from a corner; since Bran had fallen, he had lost the desire to play with his brothers and sisters. When Lyra approached her direwolf, Meraxes went to say goodbye to Ghost. They licked each other's faces, whining. They looked sad. It was as if they had understood that they would be separated. Lyra gave Ghost's white fur a kiss. Then, she petted Meraxes.
     « Come on, girl, say your last goodbyes to your brothers. We have a long march ahead. »
Meraxes whined and began nipping Ghost's ears. Ghost wagged his tail, whining in turn. Lyra meanwhile approached Bran's direwolf; he looked at her carefully, with his yellow eyes. « Take care of Bran, when he wakes up. » The direwolf continued to stare at her. It was as if he understood what she was saying. Then, he stood up and began to howl under Bran's bedroom window.
Lyra walked out of the godswood with Meraxes at her heels, one last look at the blood-red leaves of Winterfell’s heart tree.

When Lyra reached the stables with Meraxes, she found them half empty: practically all of the King's men had joined the camp outside the walls, to help dismantle it. That meant they had already saddled their horses and brought them there. Most of the Stark men had saddled their horses too, and only a few remained in the stable, including Lyra's mare and Jon's horse. Lyra saw Uncle Benjen leaning against one of the stable walls, glaring and with his arms crossed, clearly impatient from waiting for his nephew. When he saw Lyra, he smiled.
     « Hello Lyra, have you seen your brother Jon? »
     « Um, maybe... » Lyra wasn't very good at lying. « He said he was going to do... something. He should be here soon. »
Uncle Benjen sighed. « I hope so, it's already starting to snow. We're an hour late. » Then, he walked over to Lyra and hugged her.
     « Dear niece, I hope to see you and the girls again soon. And Ned. »
     « I hope so too, Uncle. Watch over Jon. »
Uncle Ben smiled at her. « He'll have to look after himself when he joins the Night's Watch. He'll be a man. »
A little figure stepped out of the shadows of the stable. « If you see your brother, tell him I am so eager to leave this cold to go somewhere even colder. »
Tyrion Lannister approached the stable doors with a horse by the reins; it was not a large horse, but it seemed enormous compared to the Imp. Lyra smiled at him and gave him a short nod.
     « My Lord. I hope you brought some warm clothes with you. »
     « Yes, indeed. And I borrowed a few books from your library. You know, to pass the time. »
     « How long will you be at the Wall? Do you wish to join the Night's Watch? » Lyra told him, grinning, imagining Tyrion’s quirky response. Tyrion laughed.
     « Ah! Every whore in Westeros would be in mourning, my dear. Forgive my foul language... but who knows? A piss or two from the Wall, and I could be back. I'll see you in King's Landing. There's a fine library at the Red Keep, four times the size of yours. » Tyrion Lannister said, exiting from the stables, accompanied by a few Lannister men who would follow him to the Wall.
Lyra smiled at him.  « I'll see you in King's Landing then, my Lord. Have a safe journey. »
     « Call me Tyrion. Now, I apologize, but I'm going to take advantage of the wait to go and drink some more mead. I also wish you a safe journey. » The Imp smiled at her, he tied the horse to the fence outside the stables, and then walked away through the snow on his bowed legs.
After this scene, Lyra turned to her Uncle Benjen.
     « Perhaps I should go saddle my mare, Uncle. » Uncle Benjen gave her another quick hug, then took her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes. « Please, take care of yourself, my dear. I'll start saddling your brother's horse, otherwise we'll never leave... » he said, first stroking Meraxes, then walking away towards the other side of the stables, to the stable of Jon's bay stallion.

As Lyra approached Moonmare's stable, she saw Hodor saddling her mare. The gentle giant turned to Lyra and smiled.
     « Hodor! » he said with a cheerful smile. Lyra smiled back.
     « Thank you, Hodor, you shouldn't have saddled my mare. You were very kind, as always. »
     « Hodor. » Hodor replied, bending down to adjust the length of the stirrups.
     « Hodor. » Lyra responded, entertained. She gave Hodor a light kiss on the cheek, making him blush. « You are truly a giant with a good soul. I will miss you. Now go, you surely have much more work to do. I'll take care of it here. » Lyra said to him affectionately.
     « Hodor. » Hodor replied, smiling, giving a short nod. He left Moonmare's stable still blushing.

« It’s a great honor serving in the Night’s Watch. » Ned said to Jon, side by side, astride their horses, just before their paths parted. « The Starks have guarded the Wall for thousands of years. And you are a Stark. You might not have my name, but you’ve my blood. » Uncle Benjen watched them from afar, on his horse. He assumed it was a private discussion, and trotted away to join the other men heading toward the cold North.
     « Is my mother alive? » Jon asked his father, hesitantly. « Does she know about Lyra and me? Where we are, where we’re going? Does she care? »
Ned remained silent for a few seconds, looking at the ground. Then, he answered him. « The next time we’ll see each other – me, Lyarra and you – we’ll talk about your mother. I promise. »
Jon nodded. Father and son looked at each other for a few seconds. Then, they parted ways.

Notes: Moonmare and Stranger, the true otp of this ff let’s be real.

The King's huge contingent and the Northmen had been marching south for weeks. “At least seven weeks. Or eight? A tenday ago or so was Robb's fifteenth name-day... And soon it will be mine and Jon's.” Lyra thought, riding her mare. She was sad that she couldn't celebrate with her brothers. 
King Robert's men marched in the lead, with Ned often keeping King Robert company by riding alongside him. Then, there was the huge royal carriage followed by the smaller Stark girls' carriage. Afterwards, there was the much lesser contingent of Winterfell and, in the rear, the various wagons of supplies and personal effects controlled by some soldiers.
Lyra couldn't stand it any longer. Her arse and legs ached, despite the fact that several blisters had already burst weeks ago. A few times, she had joined Arya and Sansa in their carriage (the rare times her two half-sisters weren't invited to join Queen Cersei’s) or, more often, she had dismounted and continued on foot, with Moonmare and Meraxes at her heels. The procession was slow, to say the least.

Lyra rode mostly among the Winterfell men: their horses were (almost) used to Meraxes' presence by now, unlike the King's men, who eyed the direwolf with apprehension. Besides, at least she had someone to talk to. A bastard girl who spent her time talking to the King's men would arouse some interest, and Lyra was determined to be as inconspicuous as possible.
When she was bored and Meraxes went off hunting, Lyra would gallop up and down the procession. They had long since passed the Neck, they were in the Riverlands now, and the King's Road was considerably wider here. As she galloped, she noticed that Prince Joffrey was always among the Lannister men, which was another reason to stick with the Northmen on the way. The Hound was always at his side, on his huge black stallion.
She wondered why Prince Joffrey didn't ride in the Royal Carriage with Queen Cersei, Tommen, and Myrcella. “Perhaps to be a good example, as heir to the throne.” Lyra thought.
They rarely stopped to sleep in inns. Especially in the North, they were very rare. Mostly, they camped in some clearing near the Kingsroad during the night. The first weeks of travel were terrible: it was very cold, and sometimes it was even snowing. At night, Lyra slept in her tent hugged together with Arya, Sansa and Jeyne: in reality, each of them had their own tent, but because it was cold they had decided to share it. She did not wash her body for weeks, thanks to the half-frozen rivers. At most, she could wash herself with a rag, dipping it in the warm water of the bivouac. Lyra would have sold a kidney for a long, warm bath in a tavern, and so far, they had only managed to stop at an inn three-fucking-times in seven weeks.
At least it was warmer in the Riverlands, and it wasn’t snowing. Lyra was able to be back to sleeping alone in her tent and taking a dip in the rivers to wash herself. It wasn’t like a hot bath, but it was better than nothing. Her hair wasn’t totally disgusting anymore. And best of all, her ass wasn’t freezing every time she went behind a bush to do her business.
Also, Moonmare was in better spirits, even though she hated getting back on the road every morning. Stupid spoiled mare. The only ones having fun were the three direwolves, who ran here and there to go hunting, reappearing in the evening when they had set up camp. They too had slept in the tent, back in the North, warming the girls' feet with their fur. Lyra continued to share her bed with Meraxes even now, finding comfort in the direwolf's warmth.

That evening, Ned Stark had warned the girls that the next day they would be staying in a tavern. A real inn! It was located right at the crossroads, near the Ruby Ford, where King Robert and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen had fought for the last time, years ago. Rhaegar had died in that battle, and he was wearing armor full of rubies. Since then, you could find some travelers on the banks of the Trident River, with their butts in the air, looking for Prince Rhaegar's rubies at the bottom of the waters. Even now, after years and years since his death.
They would probably stay at the Crossroads’ Inn for just one night, but Lyra was thrilled by the idea of resting in a real bed for a few hours. Arya couldn't contain herself: that morning, she had decided not to join the Queen's carriage (which, in fact, she often tried not to) and to ride alongside Lyra, telling her the thousand adventures and legends of Prince Rhaegar and his precious ruby armor, a total black full, heavy armor with ruby scales, to imitate the skin of a dragon. Lyra was saddling Moonmare, with Arya still talking in her ear.
     « No one has found Rhaegar’s rubies for years and years. The river waters must have carried them to the sea, Arya. »
     « That's because people don't know how to search things. I, on the other hand, can search! » Arya told her, scolding her for her pessimism.
Lyra chuckled. « All right. Now, ride with me and be a good girl. Go saddle your horse. When we get to the tavern, you, Mycah, and I will go look for the rubies. Yes, I'll come with you, to catch you if the river sweeps you out to sea. »
     « I can swim better than you. »
     « Oh, I don't doubt that. But if there’s any chance you can cause trouble, you're always willing to do it... and I don't want to go to King's Landing alone with Sansa and Jeyne, while you have fun swimming among the fishes... Also, sadly for me, I promised Jon to keep an eye on you. »
     « I don't need a nanny! »
Lyra shrugged. « If you'd rather have Septa Mordane than me... »
     « I don't want either you or her! »
     « Don't lie. You much prefer me to the Septa. »
     « Maybe... » Arya replied, sticking out her tongue. 

With a lightning speed, Arya quickly walked away with Nymeria towards the banks of the river, passing through brambles, mud and tall grass, probably looking for rubies together with Mycah, the butcher's boy with whom Arya had befriended during this long journey. “Never mind...” thought Lyra, sighing. She refused to follow Arya and went back to finish saddling Moonmare. From afar, she saw Sansa, dressed in silk, trying to reach her sister by slaloming through bushes and puddles. They had probably been invited to travel with the Queen, and she was going to warn Arya. Not that it would have done any good, surely Arya would have refused as always.
After a while she saw Sansa emerge from the bushes, visibly sulking. Her silk dress was still perfect, and Lyra wondered how that was possible. She smiled at her. « A waste of time, I guess. »
     « Yes, as always. » Sansa replied, as she approached. « She's been wearing the same filthy clothes for? What? Three days? Her hair is all messed up and... By the Seven Gods. Sometimes I wonder if she's really my sister. When I was a child, I asked Mother if Arya was a bastard too... » Sansa stopped, realizing what she had just said. She blushed. « No offense, of course. »
Lyra sighed internally. « None taken. »
     « Well. Now she's trying to get the dried mud out of Nymeria's fur. And she and Mycah are looking for Rhaegar's rubies. » Sansa said blushing, trying to change the subject.
Lyra laughed, climbing into her saddle. « And Nymeria obviously rebelled, didn't she? »
Sansa smiled. « That's right, she ran away from Arya. They are similar. »
     « Indeed they are. »
Sansa smiled and nodded at her, taking her leave and heading towards the Queen's Wheelhouse. Lyra urged Moonmare toward the column; she noticed Meraxes stretching and then venturing into the bushes, probably to go hunting or to join her sister Nymeria.

The ride from the camp to the Crossroads Inn was short, only a few hours long. They left shortly after dawn and arrived in the early afternoon, just after lunch.
Lyra spent her time riding with Jory Cassel, Hullen the Master of Horses, and Harwin, son of Hullen. They had become her traveling companions by now, along with other men from the North. There were about 50 of them, and Lyra had known them all since her childhood. They were good, honorable people. Lyra would have brought a few more men, though. Ned and King Robert were practically best friends, but after Jon Arryn died... she had heard from Maester Luwin that he might have been poisoned, or so Lysa Arryn said. He was old, though, much older than his step-aunt Lysa. Perhaps Lysa's letter was more of a widow's grief than anything else?
And still no word from Bran, nor any raven from Winterfell. Lyra, along with her sisters, had written a letter for Robb's 15th nameday, but they had not yet received a reply. She wondered if the raven had gone missing.
In any case, something told Lyra to stay well away from the King's men, and especially away from the Queen's men. She spent the entire journey with the Stark men, her father (the rare times he didn't ride in the lead, next to King Robert), the Septa, Jeyne, and her sisters. “Remember, little wolf. Keep a low profile. Be quiet. Keep your eyes down. Don't let yourself be noticed.” Sandor's words often returned to her head, including his deep, scratchy tone.
She also stayed away from Sandor, of course. Not just because he was Prince Joffrey's guard dog, but also because he was unpredictable and easily angered. Lyra couldn't understand him: one moment he was almost kind to her, the next he was trying to scare her, then he was almost caring again, then he was avoiding her and insulting her again. That man was a lunatic. He was one of the few people who could actually get on her nerves (along with Prince Joffrey). Of course, Lyra was impulsive and often gave in to the provocations of that huge man. Her twin brother Jon was just like her, with the difference that he was apparently much calmer and shy. Both had the habit of not fucking thinking when angry. For these reasons, Lyra decided it was wiser to eliminate the problem at the root, avoiding Sandor Clegane as much as possible. She was no longer safe within the walls of Winterfell, in her home, after all.

When they reached the Crossroads Inn, Lyra and the Northmen (traveling almost in the rear) were among the last to arrive. Most of the horses were tied outside, near the King's men's camp. The tavern was huge, four stories high, but most of the soldiers would sleep in tents anyway, as the Inn couldn't accommodate everyone. Lyra was delighted when her father told her that she would share a room with her sister Arya. Sansa and Jeyne would sleep together, in another room.
     « It was the best I could do, there were not enough single rooms. » Ned told her. « The innkeepers will soon be adding hot water to the wooden tub in your rooms, » he added, smiling, knowing that the first thing his daughter would do was to wash herself. « Tell your sister Arya to wash herself and change her clothes when you see her. Oh, and there should still be some room in the stables for that spoiled mare of yours. Unfortunately, the direwolves will have to sleep outside. »
     « That's fine, Father. Really. And thank you for everything, » Lyra said to him, smiling. She dismounted Moonmare and led her toward the stables.
When she arrived, the only two stalls free were those next to Stranger, Sandor's huge black stallion. “Somehow, that doesn't surprise me. That horse is more irritable than his master.” She thought. She peered into Stranger's stable and saw Sandor, still in full armor, grooming his beast. Sandor immediately turned and watched her, frowning as usual. Lyra immediately looked away and led Moonmare into the next stable.
As soon as Stranger noticed Moonmare in the next stable, the two horses exchanged a... nod? “Well, at least he doesn't bite her, like he does with all the other horses...” Lyra thought as she removed her mare's saddle and unbridled her. Sandor, in the meantime, had gone back to ignoring her and continuing to groom his horse. Lyra put some fresh hay in Moonmare's manger, and went to get a bucket, a sponge and a currycomb. They continued to tend their horses in silence for quite some time, ignoring each other.
     « I see you keep quiet and travel with your own kind. My threats were not made in vain, then. » Sandor told her at one point. Lyra did not answer for a while, counting to ten.
     « Should I answer you or should I keep quiet? » she said, her voice thin with anger.
     « You should shut the fuck up. » he snarked, in his usual hoarse and harsh voice.
Lyra wanted to strangle him. « You know what? You're really-... » Lyra’s furious face appeared in Stranger's stable. But Sandor was already walking away, completely ignoring her. « …a huge arsehole cunt fucker! A massive. Piece. Of. Shite! » Lyra yelled at him. Sandor walked away amused, his laughter as hoarse as a snarling dog.
Lyra finished washing her mare, fucking pissed off. « He's always trying to make me mad while I'm grooming you... and he succeeds every time. » She said to Moonmare.

Lyra had been soaking in the hot water for nearly twenty minutes when Arya burst into the room, as dirty as a farmer after ploughing the fields. 
Lyra proceeded to wring out her wet hair and make way to her younger sister. « Father wants you to wash and change your clothes, little squire. » She said to Arya. Arya rolled her eyes, and began to undress. Lyra wrapped herself around a terrycloth towel, drying her body and hair. When Arya sank into the tub, she helped her little sister wash her hair and try to brush out her tangles.
     « What did you put in it? » Arya said, wrinkling her nose at the warm water.
     « Orange, vanilla, and bergamot oil. »
     « Ugh. It smells like Sansa's lemon cakes, » Arya said.
     « No, it smells so good. » Lyra said, smiling, continuing to brush Arya's unruly hair. « So? Did you and Mycah find any rubies? »
     « No, but we're not giving up. We're closer to the Ruby Ford here, so we'll go back and search for them this afternoon! Then we'll train. »
     « You and Mycah? » Lyra asked her.
     « Yes! Me and Mycah. With wooden swords! »
     « Where did you get them? » Arya giggled at that question.
     « It's a secret. »
     « All right, Arya Stark. Keep your secrets to yourself... » Lyra said, smiling. She poured oils into her sister’s soapy hair. « They'll make your hair soft and shiny... »
     « I don't care about soft hair, » Arya said, frowning. « I'm not Sansa. »
     « I'm not Sansa either, but I like having soft, scented hair. » Lyra leaned close to Arya's ear. « They can distract enemies... »
     « The hair? » Arya exclaimed, laughing.
     « Of course. Shiny hair can blind soldiers. » Lyra said, bursting into laughter.
     « You really are stupid sometimes… » Arya replied.
     « Sure, keep laughing. Call me stupid. But at almost fifteen, I'm still alive. »
     « You've never been to war. »
     « Yet. But if I ever go, I'll survive. » Lyra replied, giggling.
     « I'll survive, too. »
     « Only if your hair is shiny. »
     « No, only if I can use a sword. »
     « That's another option... » Both the girls laughed.

Immediately after drying herself and changing (into at least some clean clothes), Arya ran out of the room to look for Nymeria and Mycah. Lyra spent more time in her room putting on some scented creams and changing into clean, comfortable clothes, then went downstairs to look for Meraxes and show her around. She also takes a book with her, perhaps to read it peacefully near the riverbanks, while she keeps an eye on Arya. 
In the courtyard of the inn she saw Sansa, also cleaned and changed into a beautiful blush pink dress, walking Lady on a leash alone. Then, she saw in the distance three new knights near Queen Cersei; Sansa had noticed them too, and was looking at them. Lyra approached her stepsister, nodding at her. Sansa responded politely, with a hint of a smile, then they continued to watch the scene. 
They heard the Queen saying « The council does us a great honor, my good lords. »
     « What’s happening? » Lyra asked a squire they knew.
     « The council sent riders from King’s Landing to escort us the rest of the way. » He told them. « An honor guard for the King. »
Sansa and Lyra let their direwolves clear a path through the crowd, anxious to see. When they got closer, they saw two knights kneeling before the Queen, in armour so fine and gorgeous that it made Lyra blink. One of them wore an intricate suit of white enameled scales, brilliant as a field of new-fallen snow, with silver chasings and clasps that glittered in the sun, and with a pure white cloak hanging from his shoulders: the Kingsguard armor. When he removed his helm, Lyra noticed that he was an old man with hair as pale as his armour, yet he seemed strong and graceful for all that.
His companion was a man in his twenties whose armour was steel plate of a deep forest-green; he was handsome, handsome just like Jaime Lannister was but in a different way. He was tall and powerfully made, with jet-black hair that fell to his shoulders and framed a clean-shaved face, and laughing green eyes to match his armour. Cradled under one arm was an antlered helm, its magnificent rack shimmering in gold. 
The third stranger did not kneel with the others; he stood to one side, beside their horses, a gaunt grim man who watched the proceedings in silence. His face was pockmarked and beardless, with deepset eyes and hollow cheeks. Thought he was not an old man, only a few wisps of hair remained to him, sprouting above his ears, but those he had grown long as a woman’s. His armour was an iron-grey chainmail over layers of boiled leather, plain and unadorned, with age of hard use. Above his right shoulder there was a two-headed greatsword, too long to be won at his side. 
     « The King is gone hunting, but I know he will be pleased to see you when he returns, » the Queen was saying to the two knights who knelt before her. 
Lyra noticed Sansa couldn’t take her eyes off the third man. She looked… scared? Intimidated? In fact, he was kind of scary. He seemed to feel the weight of her gaze, and he slowly turned his head to Sansa. Both Lady and Meraxes growled at him. Sansa looked terrified, and took a step back. She bumped into the fucking Hound. His hands grasped her by the soulders; Sansa turned and she looked up at the burned face of Sandor Clegane, his mouth twisted in a terrible mockery of a smile. 
     « You are shaking, girl. » He said, his voice rasping. « Do I frighten you so much? »
Probably yes, Sansa's gaze seemed terrified even of the Hound.
     « Leave my sister alone, Clegane. » Lyra whispered to him under her breath. The Hound ignored her. Sansa wrenched away from him, and the Hound laughed. Lady and Meraxes moved between Sansa and Sandor, rumbling a warning. Sansa dropped to her knees to wrap her arms around Lady. Lyra whispered a « Meraxes, stop. » to her direwolf, who calmed down.
Lyra could feel eyes on her and Sansa, and all people gathered around them gasping, here and there she heard muttered comments and titters of laughter.
     « Wolves?! » a man exclaimed, and someone else said, « Seven Hells, they’re direwolves. What they’re doing in the camp?! »
     « The Starks use them for wet nurses. » The Hound’s rasping voice replied, sarcastic as usual. Lyra realized that the two stranger knights were looking down at them and their direwolves, swords in their hands. She noticed Sansa’s eyes filled with tears: she was panicking. 
     « Joffrey, go to her. » Lyra heard the Queen say. And then, Joffrey was there.
     « Leave her alone. » Joffrey said. He stood over Sansa, beautiful in blue wool and black leather, his golden curls shining in the sun like a crown. Lyra stepped back with Meraxes, to make room for the prince. Joffrey gave Sansa his hand, drew her to her feet. « What is it, sweet lady? Why are you afraid? No one will hurt you. Put away your swords, all of you. The wolves are their little pets, that’s all. » Then, he looked at Sandor. « And you, dog, away with you, you’re scaring my betrothed and her… sister. » Joffrey added, spatting at the word “sister”.
The Hound, ever faithful, bowed and slid away quietly through the press. Sansa struggled to steady herself, then she talked. « It was not him, my sweet prince, » she tried to explain. « It was the other one. »
The two stranger knights exchanged a look. « Payne? » chuckled the young man in the green armour. 
The older man in white spoke to Sansa gently. « Oftimes Ser Ilyn frighten me as well, sweet lady. He has a fearsome aspect. »
     « As well he should. » The spectators parted to make way for Queen Cersei. « If the wicked do not fear the King’s Justice, you have put the wrong man in the office. »
     « Then surely you have chosen the right one, Your Grace. » Sansa said, and a gale of laughter erupted all around them. 
     « Well spoken, child, » said the old man in white. « As befits the daughter of Eddard Stark. I am honored to know you, however irregular the manner of our meeting I am Ser Barristan Selmy, of the Kingsguard. » He bowed to Sansa.
Lyra knew the name, and surely Sansa too. « The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, » Sansa said, « and councillor to Robert our king and to Aerys Targaryen before him. The honor is mine, good knight. Even in the far North, the singers praise the deeds of Ser Barristan the Bold. »
Lyra was proud of her sister's good manners, and smiled to herself. The green knight laughed again.
     « Barristan the Old, you mean. Don’t flatter him too sweetly, child, he thinks overmuch of himself already. » He smiled at Sansa. « Now, wolf girl, if you can put a name to me as well, then I must concede that you’re truly our Hand’s daughter. »
Joffrey stiffened beside Sansa. « Have a care how you address my betrothed. »
     « I can answer, » Sansa said quickly. « Your helmet bears golden antlers, my Lord. The stag is the sigil of the Royal House. King Robert has two brothers. By your extreme youth, you can only be Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and councillor to the King, and so I name you. »
Ser Barristan chuckled. « By his extreme youth, he can only be a prancing jackanapes, and so I name him. »
There was general laughter, led by Lord Renly himself. The tension of a few moments ago was gone, and both Sansa and Lyra were beginning to feel comfortable… until Ser Ilyn Payne shouldered two men aside, and stood before Sansa, unsmiling. He did not say a word. Lyra held her breath. Lady bared her teeth and began to growl, a low rumble full of menace. Meraxes joined in, snarling at Lyra's side. Both Sansa and Lyra silenced their wolves with a gentle hand to their heads. 
     « I am sorry if I offended you, Ser Ilyn. » Sansa said to him. She waited for an answer, but none came. The headsman looked at Sansa with pale colourless eyes for a long moment, then he looked at Lyra. Lyra shivered, she felt as if she were naked under his gaze. Still silent, he turned and walked away.
Sansa looked at her Prince, worried. « Did I say something wrong, Your Grace? Why will he not speak to me? »
     « Ser Ilyn has not been talkative these past fourteen years. » Lord Renly commented with a sly smile. Joffrey gave his uncle a look of pure loathing, then he took Sansa’s hands in his own. « Aerys Targaryen has his tongue ripped out with hot pincers. »
     « He speaks most eloquently with his sword, however. » The Queen said. « And his devotion to our realm is unquestioned. » Then, Cersei smiled graciously. « Sansa, the good councillors and I must speak together until the King returns with your father. Joffrey, perhaps you would be so kind as to entertain our guest today. »
     « It would be my pleasure, Mother. » Joffrey said very formally. He took Sansa by the arm and led her away, Sansa gazed at Joffrey worshipfully.

Lyra walked away from the crowd, thanking the Seven Gods that she was just a bastard and therefore never noticed. Or, at least, people pretended not to notice her. She led Lady to the direwolf cages, then walked away with Meraxes toward the riverbanks, to find Arya.
She found her shortly after, searching for rubies with Mycah along the banks of the river, her pants rolled up to her knees. Nymeria happily trotted beside Arya, and when she saw Meraxes she jumped on her. The two direwolves began playing and chasing each other.
     « Did you come here to help us search for Rhaegar’s rubies? » Arya asked her. Mycah waved at her.
     « No, I think I'll lean against this amazing rock and continue reading this book. It's definitely quieter over here. I can read in peace. »
Arya walked over, squinting at the book's cover. « “Plants and Roots of the Seven Kingdoms. A Complete Guide. By Maester Neimer.”, » she said, reading the title. « You're really boring, sister. »
     « I don't want to swim in the river, I just washed up. And besides, this book isn't that boring... » Lyra lied, leaning back against the rock and starting to read.
After about half an hour of searching in vain, Arya and Mycah had gotten bored and had started practicing with their wooden swords instead, making quite a noise. Nymeria and Meraxes had finally fallen asleep next to each other, under a tree.
After about a quarter of an hour, Lyra's stomach began to rumble. “Damn, I have to take a dump.” she thought. “I don't want to go back to the inn, I'll walk away a little and go behind a bush.”
     « Hey, I'm going for a quick walk. » Lyra said to them. Arya nodded at her, continuing to try to dodge the attacks of Mycah, who was bigger and stronger than her. When he heard his mistress walk away, Meraxes jumped up and followed her. Nymeria continued to sleep peacefully.
     « There's no need to follow me, but if you really want to... » Lyra said to her direwolf.
Finding a comfortable, isolated bush was a challenge, and Lyra walked for almost 10 minutes, with Meraxes at her heels. When she found it, it took her a while to concentrate on doing her business, and the sound of wooden swords echoed all the way there.
Meraxes sat a few feet away from her, keeping watch. It was always like this, when Lyra went to do her business, her direwolf followed her and checked the surroundings.
While she was busy, she initially heard some concussions. She didn't pay much attention to it, she thought Arya and Mycah were training harder. Then, she heard screams and Nymeria's growl. And a male voice, clearly in pain. « Nymeria! » she heard Arya yell.
“Damn, I can't just walk away for ten fucking minutes and take a shit… what the hell is going on now?!” Lyra thought, quickly getting up and cleaning herself. Meraxes had meanwhile snapped to attention, growling in alarm.

When she ran to the scene, she found only Prince Joffrey and Sansa, the latter trying to comfort him in vain. Joffrey's arm was slightly bleeding, and he looked in pain. «... don't be afraid, I'll ride to the holdfast and bring help for you. » She said to him, tenderly reaching out and brushing back his soft blond hair. There was loathing in his eyes, nothing but the vilest contempt. « Then go, » he spit at Sansa. « Go and don't touch me. »
     « What in the Seven Hells is happening?! » Lyra said, coming closer. Joffrey jumped at the sight of Meraxes. He glared at them both. Meraxes growled at Joffrey, and Lyra silenced her with a pat.
     « Nymeria bit Joffrey! It's all Arya's fault! » Sansa said, worried.
     « What?! Where's Arya now? » Lyra asked, incredulous. She found it really strange that Arya and Nymeria would attack prince Joffrey for no reason at all. And Meraxes growling at Joffrey? This is all very weird.
     « I don't know, she, Mycah, and Nymeria ran away. »
     « Hurry up, you two, I'm bleeding to death! » Joffrey shouted, full of hatred. Lyra peered at the wound on his arm and rolled her eyes.
     « No, you will not bleed to death, Your Grace. » She alleged, stopping the urge to slap the prince. « Sansa, go get help. Meraxes and I will look for Arya. » Lyra said, walking away to find their sister.

The search for Arya went on for three long days, during which the King's contingent had moved a little further south, staying at Castle Darry. They were clearly unwanted guests: King Robert had not bothered to warn Lord Darry of his arrival, and besides, the Darrys sided with Prince Rhaegar Targaryen at the time. Castle Darry was too small to accommodate all Darry, Lannister, Baratheon, and Stark men, and the atmosphere was very tense indeed. Sansa remained locked in her chambers most of the time. Lady and Meraxes traveled from the Crossroads Inn to Castle Darry locked in their cages, whimpering sadly the whole time. Even now, they were kept in cages and tied up, by the order of the King and Queen. 
Meanwhile, both Lannister and Stark men searched for Arya, Nymeria, and Mycah along both the banks of the Trident river. Lyra joined the search for a few hours on the first day, along with Meraxes and some Stark men. Her father later sent her back to the Inn and forbade her from joining the search: there was a lot of tension between the Lannisters and the Starks, and he didn't want his other daughter involved. Ned Stark led Arya's hunt for three full days; by the fourth day he was too tired to even stand up, and full of grieving. It was then that Lyra finally managed to convince him to take his place on the search, along with Jory Cassel.
     « I have Meraxes, please Father, she can help us find Arya and Nymeria before the Lannisters do. »
Ned sighed. « Just for today. And only because I'm too tired. Sandor Clegane and Ser Jaime Lannister are hunting north of the Trident, if only they find her before us... I don’t even wanna think about that. Go. And don't leave Jory's side. »
     « I won’t, father. » Lyra said, nodding.

That day, after several hours, they found Arya. It was late in the evening, the sun was setting and they were about to call it quits for the day. It was thanks to a lead followed by Meraxes that they finally managed to find Arya and Nymeria. But not Mycah. She wondered if the Lannisters had found him. Lyra shivered at the thought.
Arya was dirty, covered in mud and dirt from head to toe. Her clothes were torn and she was much thinner than usual. As soon as she saw Meraxes, Jory, Lyra and the Stark men, she started to cry with joy. Nymeria was close to her, alert, also dirty. She greeted Meraxes, wagging her tail, finally happy to see a friendly face. Jory immediately gave Arya a flask of water and a piece of stale bread, which Arya devoured. Lyra couldn't help but hug her. She, like their lord father, had barely slept these four days, too worried about her sister’s wellbeing. 
Arya began to explain to Jory what had happened, tears streaming down her face.
It was then that Jory spoke, walking over to Arya and squeezing her shoulders. « Arya. You have to leave Nymeria. »
     « What?! No! Why?! » Arya states, incredulous.
     « Because the Lannisters will probably want to kill her. That's why. She can hunt, she'll be safe in these woods. You have to say goodbye to her. » Arya didn't answer Jory, brooding for a few minutes with tears in her eyes.
Jory turned to Lyra. « And you, Lyarra. You have to say goodbye to Meraxes, too. »
Lyra's eyes widened. « What?! But Meraxes had nothing to do with this! Why would I do that? »
Jory sighed. « I know, but until this situation calms down, it's best if Meraxes disappears for a while. She'll be safe with Nymeria. Prince Joffrey and Queen Cersei seem... very involved in revenge. They certainly will not want direwolves in King's Landing. »
Lyra thought about it. She started to cry, too, as Arya did. «...maybe you're right, Jory. For... a few days at least, it's best if she's not around. »
     « Even for more than a few days, if I may say so. » Jory added.

That evening, Arya and Lyra said their last goodbyes to Nymeria and Meraxes; they cried and hugged their furs for several minutes. The two direwolves didn't understand at first, and tried to follow the Stark men for a while. In the end, Arya and Lyra were forced to push them away by throwing rocks at them. The ride back to Darry's Castle was terrible, and no one said a word, Lyra and Arya both cried silently, holding their hands.

As soon as they arrived at the gates of Castle Darry, the Queen's men brought Arya, Jory, and Lyra before King Robert, to the audience chamber. Vayon Poole, the steward of Winterfell, was sent to warn Lord Eddard Stark. Several minutes passed before Ned showed up, seemingly calm but actually rather furious; Lyra knew him well, after all.
King Robert was slumped in Darry’s high seat at the far end of the room, his face closed and sullen. Cersei Lannister and Joffrey stood beside him. The queen had her hand on Joffrey’s shoulder. Thick silken bandages still covered the boy’s arm. Lyra spent her time half hidden behind Jory and Arya, too tired and also rather annoyed at having been dragged here instead to their Father's rooms.
     « Arya! » Ned called loudly. He went to her, his boots ringing on the stone floor. When she saw him, she cried out and began to sob. Ned went to one knee and took her in his arms. « I’m sorry, » she sobbed, « I’m sorry, I’m sorry. »
     « I know. Are you hurt? » He said.
     « No. » Her tears left pink tracks down her cheeks. « Hungry some. I ate some berries, but there was nothing else. »
     « We’ll feed you soon enough. » Ned promised. He rose to face the king. « What is the meaning of this? » Eddard’s eyes swept the room, probably searching for friendly faces. Lord Renly wore a half smile that might mean anything, and old Ser Barristan was grave; the rest were Lannister men, and hostile. « Why was I not told that my daughter had been found? » Ned demanded, his voice ringing. « Why was she not brought to me at once? »
He spoke to Robert, but it was Cersei Lannister who answered. « How dare you speak to your king in that manner! »
At that, the king stirred. « Quiet, woman, » he snapped. He straightened in his seat. « I am sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. It seemed best to bring her here and get the business done with quickly. »
     « And what business is that? » Ned put ice in his voice.
The queen stepped forward. « You know full well, Stark. This girl of yours attacked my son. Her and her butcher’s boy. That animal of hers tried to tear his arm off. »
     « That’s not true, » Arya said loudly. « She just bit him a little. He was hurting Mycah. »
     « Joff told us what happened, » the Queen said. « You and the butcher boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him. » Lyra sighed: it was a complete lie.
     « That’s not how it was, » Arya said, close to tears again. Ned put a hand on her shoulder.
     « Yes it is! » Prince Joffrey insisted. « They all attacked me, and she threw Lion’s Tooth in the river! » Lyra noticed that he did not so much as glance at Arya as he spoke.
     « Liar! » Arya yelled.
     « Shut up! » the prince yelled back.
     « Enough! » the king roared, rising from his seat. Silence fell. « Now, child, you will tell me what happened. Tell it all, and tell it true. It is a great crime to lie to a king. » Then he looked over at his son.      « When she is done, you will have your turn. Until then, hold your tongue. »
As Arya began her story, both Lyra and Ned heard the door open behind them. They glanced back and saw Vayon Poole enter with Sansa. They stood quietly at the back of the hall as Arya spoke. When she got to the part where she threw Joffrey’s sword into the middle of the Trident, Renly Baratheon began to laugh. The king bristled. « Ser Barristan, escort my brother from the hall before he chokes. »
Lord Renly stifled his laughter. « My brother is too kind. I can find the door myself. » He bowed to Joffrey. « Perchance later you’ll tell me how a nine-year-old girl the size of a wet rat managed to disarm you with a broom handle and throw your sword in the river. » Then, the door swung shut behind him.
Prince Joffrey was pale as he began his very different version of events. When his son was done talking, the king rose heavily from his seat, looking like a man who wanted to be anywhere but here.      « What in all the seven hells am I supposed to make of this? He says one thing, she says another. »
     « They were not the only ones present, » Ned said. « Sansa, come here. » Both Ned and Lyra heard her version of the story the night Arya had vanished. Lyra knows their father knew the truth. « Tell us what happened. » Ned said.
Sansa stepped forward hesitantly. She was dressed in blue velvets trimmed with white, a silver chain around her neck. Her thick auburn hair had been brushed until it shone. She blinked at her sister, then at the young prince. « I don’t know, » she said tearfully, looking as though she wanted to bolt. « I don’t remember. Everything happened so fast, I didn’t see… »
     « What?! » Lyra blurted out.
     « You rotten! » Arya shrieked. She flew at her sister like an arrow, knocking Sansa down to the ground, pummeling her. « Liar, liar, liar, liar. »
     « Arya, stop it! » Ned shouted. Jory pulled her off her sister, kicking. Sansa was pale and shaking as Ned lifted her back to her feet. 
     « The girl is as wild as that filthy animal of hers, » Queen Cersei said. « Robert, I want her punished. »
     « Seven hells, » Robert swore. « Cersei, look at her. She’s a child. What would you have me do, whip her through the streets? Damn it, children fight. It’s over. No lasting harm was done. »
The queen was furious. « Joff will carry those scars for the rest of his life. » At that, Lyra bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Robert Baratheon looked at his eldest son. « So he will. Perhaps they will teach him a lesson. Ned, see that your daughter is disciplined. I will do the same with my son. »
     « Gladly, Your Grace. » Ned said with vast relief.
Robert started to walk away, but the queen was not done. « And what of the direwolf? » she called after him. « What of the beast that savaged your son? »
The king stopped, turned back, frowned. « I’d forgotten about the damned wolf. »
Jory spoke up quickly. « We found no trace of the direwolf, Your Grace. »
Robert did not look unhappy. « No? So be it. »
The queen raised her voice. « A hundred golden dragons to the man who brings me its skin! »
     « A costly pelt, » Robert grumbled. « I want no part of this, woman. You can damn well buy your furs with Lannister gold. »
The queen regarded him coolly. « I had not thought you so niggardly. The king I’d thought to wed would have laid a wolfskin across my bed before the sun went down. »
Robert’s face darkened with anger. « That would be a fine trick, without a wolf. »
     « We have a wolf, » Cersei Lannister said, « We have two of them, in fact. » Her voice was very quiet, but her green eyes shone with triumph.
It took them all a moment to comprehend her words, but when they did, the king shrugged irritably. « As you will. Have Ser Ilyn see to it. »
     « Robert, you cannot mean this! » Ned protested.
The king was in no mood for more argument. « Enough, Ned, I will hear no more. A direwolf is a savage beast. Sooner or later it would have turned on your girls the same way the other did on my son. Get them a dog, the’ll be happier for it. »
     « Your Grace. » Lyra whispered, stepping forward. King Robert finally seemed to notice her, staring down at her. « Tell me, child. »
     « My direwolf is... missing. I believe she ran off with my sister Arya's direwolf during the hunt today... » Lyra lied.
     « We haven't found them, Your Grace, neither Meraxes nor Nymeria. » Jory said with a bow. The Queen and Joffrey looked quite displeased by the news.
     « In any case, neither Meraxes nor Lady have harmed Prince Joffrey, so I ask you to please have mercy, my King. » Lyra concluded, looking down, too afraid to say anything else.
     « We do still have a direwolf in our midst, though, one that could claim more victims. I want that beast dead. » Cersei spat, stroking Joffrey's shoulder as she did so. Robert didn't say anything.
That was when Sansa finally seemed to comprehend. Her eyes were frightened as they went to her father. « He doesn’t mean Lady, does he? » She saw the truth on his face. « No, » she said. « No, not Lady, Lady didn’t bite anybody, she’s good… »
     « Lady wasn’t there, » Arya shouted angrily. « You leave her alone! »
     « Stop them, » Sansa pleaded to Ned, « don’t let them do it, please, please, it wasn’t Lady, it was Nymeria, Arya did it, you can’t, it wasn’t Lady, don’t let them hurt Lady, I’ll make her be good, I promise, I promise… » She started to cry.
All Ned could do was take her in his arms and hold her while she wept. He looked across the room at Robert. « Please, Robert. For the love you bear me. For the love you bore my sister. Please. »
The king looked at them for a long moment, then turned his eyes on his wife. « Damn you, Cersei, » he said with loathing.
Ned stood, disengaging himself from Sansa’s grasp. All the weariness of the past four days had returned to him. « Do it yourself then, Robert, » he said in a voice cold and sharp as steel. « At least have the courage to do it yourself. »
Robert looked at Ned with dead eyes and left without a word. Silence filled the hall.
     « Where is the direwolf? » Cersei Lannister asked when her husband was gone. Beside her, Prince Joffrey was smiling.
     « The beast is chained up outside the gatehouse, Your Grace. » Ser Barristan Selmy answered reluctantly.
     « Send for Ilyn Payne. »
     « No, » Ned said. « Jory, take the girls back to their rooms and bring me Ice. If it must be done, I will do it. »
Cersei Lannister regarded him suspiciously. « You, Stark? Is this some trick? Why would you do such a thing? »
     « She is of the north. She deserves better than a butcher. »

── 𝓔𝓭𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓭 ──
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒.

He left the room with his eyes burning and his daughter’s wails echoing in his ears.
He was angry, and really disappointed by King Robert's behavior. As he walked toward the direwolf cages, he heard footsteps running behind him. « Father! » Lyarra's voice reached him, and his daughter began to walk beside him. « You can't do this! Please, convince King Robert! »
     « You should be in your chambers with the girls. » He answered harshly, continuing to walk.
     « I know. But I don't want Lady to die. Please, Sansa is crying in despair... » she whined.
     « I've already tried. The King has made his decision. Now go back to your chambers. »
     « I want to come too. I want to say goodbye to Lady. » Lyra answered firmly. 
     « No, you're not coming. » Ned turned to Lyra, his tone stern. « You must go back to your chambers with Sansa and Arya. Now. » Lyra, however, didn't look intimidated.
     « Then I'll just stay here and wait for you, » she said. « Please. » Ned didn't wanto to argue with his daughter, not right now. « All right. But just stay right here. It’s an order. » He said to his daughter, sighing. Sometimes she was more stubborn than Arya.

He found the direwolf pup where they chained her. Ned sat beside her for a while. « Lady, » he said, tasting the name. Shortly, Jory brought him Ice.
When it was over, he said, « Choose four men and have them take the body north. Bury her at Winterfell. »
     « All that way? » Jory said, astonished.
     « All that way, » Ned affirmed. « The Lannister woman shall never have this skin. »

Ned found Lyarra in the same place where he had left her: she was crying silently, her head bowed to the ground. He patted her arm and led her toward the Castle. They were walking back to the tower in silence to give themselves up to sleep at last when Sandor Clegane and his riders came pounding through the castle gate, back from their hunt.
There was something slung over the back of his dark destrier, a heavy shape wrapped in a bloody cloak. « No sign of your daughter, Hand, » the Hound rasped down, « but the day was not wholly wasted. We got her little pet. » He reached back and shoved the burden off, and it fell with a thump in front of Ned and Lyarra.
Bending, Ned pulled back the cloak, dreading the words he would have to find for Arya, but it was not Nymeria after all. It was the butcher’s boy, Mycah, his body covered in dried blood. He had been cut almost in half from shoulder to waist by some terrible blow struck from above. He heard Lyra stifle a scream, from beside him.
     « You rode him down, » Ned said.
     « You....you bast-… » he heard his daughter saying. Ned held Lyarra by the shoulder before she lunged at the Hound. She was livid.
The Hound’s eyes seemed to glitter through the steel of that hideous dog’s-head helm. « He ran. » He looked at Ned and Lyarra’s face and laughed. « But not very fast. »
     « He was just a young boy! » Lyra screamed at the Hound, trying to wriggle out of Ned's grip. Tears of anger streamed down her face.
Ned tried to calm her down, while the Hound just watched them amused. « Let's go, Lyra. » He said to his daughter calmly. He had no desire to give in to the taunts of Prince Joffrey's guard dog.

As they were leaving, a group of Lannister soldiers – about a dozen of them – entered one of the gates of Castle Darry, making a great noise. One of the men shouted to one of the guards to take three soldier to the infirmary. Two of them were badly wounded, barely alive and hardly keeping themself upright on the saddle. Ned, Lyra, and the Hound turned, watching the scene in silence.
     «... and bury these two, that fucking beast attacked them in the neck. » The voice of Ser Meryn Trant, one of the Kingsguard men, reached Ned's ears. Another guard hurried to grab the dead men from the stretcher carried by one of the horses. « But we caught this damn wolf at last. Not even a direwolf can do anything against fifteen men. » Ser Meryn laughed, dismounting. He drank from a flask and lifted the blanket that covered the corpse from over his horse's back. Ned held his breath. He noticed the Hound standing motionless on his steed, also tense, watching the scene.
A huge smear of crimson blood adorned a thick snow-white fur. Meraxes's muzzle, lifeless, protruded with an open mouth from the horse's back. In the meantime, all the Lannister men toasted cheerfully, regardless of the three wounded and two dead soldiers. Ned turned to Lyarra just in time: she remained shocked, pale, staring at Meraxes's corpse as if she had not realized what had happened. Then she fainted, and Ned caught her. Silently, he picked her up and carried her to her rooms.