you're coming back. and it's the end of the world. we're starting over. and i
love you, darling.
"Remember wait until the ships-"
"The ships are in the bay."
"They must be far enough in so they won't be-"
"I know what 'in' means. D'you know how to use that?"
"I chopped wood once. No, I watched my brother chopping wood."
"I saw you kill a man with a shield. You'll be unstoppable with an axe."
Tyrion shot forward to grab Bronn's hand in his, pulling the man towards him ever so slightly. All at once, Lyarra felt as if she were intruding — quickly moving to lean back behind one of the columns of the hall to look for Sansa. It was expected of Sansa to see her husband, the king, off to war — and seeing as Lyarra had no intention of leaving her niece alone for the remainder of the night, there they were.
"Don't get killed," Bronn remarked, shaking his head as he spat the words out. For all his lackluster attitude accomplished, it was evident that he cared for Tyrion. He turned to Lyarra then, reaching out with his other hand to clasp her arm. "You either, for that matter."
"Nor you, my friend." Tyrion rushed, his stare still lingering on their clasped hands. Lyarra held her grin at the sight, forcing herself to think of the events to come. This was no moment to find joy in the repressed nature of the two friends she had left.
"Oh, are we friends now?"
"Of course we are. Just because I pay you for your services doesn't diminish our friendship."
"Enhances it, really."
"Oh, enhances. Fancy word for a sellsword." Lyarra retorted, holding in another snort at the unimpressed look Bronn shot her.
"Been spending time with fancy folks."
Bronn stepped away then, bowing as Sansa moved into the center of the room — with Shae and Aianna at her side. Aianna had yet to say a word the entire evening, though that hadn't been altogether surprising. She had a duty. Lyarra knew that well enough. Yet the thought that she'd expected differently of the girl even still, never once failed her. Lyarra moved to her niece's side, with Tyrion quick to follow.
"Lady Sansa, Aianna, and .. Sheila?" He dragged the name out as if he couldn't properly recall the woman's face. Shae almost snarled, biting her true new name out.
"Shae," He corrected at once. "Surely my sister has asked you to join the other highborn ladies," He remarked, this time directing his point towards Lyarra as well. She only shrugged as her niece began to explain.
"She has, my lord, but King Joffrey sent for me to see him off. Aunt Lyarra felt it best to remain at my side."
"Sansa!" The boy in question called, beckoning the girl over to him. Sandor stomped after him, pausing in the slightest as he took in the sight of her. He expected her to be in Maegor's Holdfast with the rest of the highborn ladies, just as Tyrion had, no doubt.
"Always been a great romantic, my nephew."
"I will pray for your safe return, my lord. Just as I pray for the king's." Sansa claimed, before turning on her heel to march towards the king. Lyarra watched the interaction from a distance, assuming that the king would likely not take her presence welcomingly. Sandor never once pulled his gaze from her, despite her forcing herself to look away.
Tyrion winced at Sansa's words, as Lyarra only shrugged. Sansa had no reason to trust Tyrion. Not after all his family had done. Despite her growing care for the man, she couldn't expect her niece to feel differently about him. She could faintly make out the hushed whispers of Shae and Tyrion sharing words between themselves before he turned defiantly back to Lyarra. She halted in her step for a moment, thinking over her words. Tyrion was a beacon of light in the keep, in her eyes. She had Ros, at times. Aianna, at others. But Tyrion was something different. He was always there.
"Don't die out there, Lannister. I'll bring you back, and kill you myself." Tyrion tilted his head as if he believed that she was being entirely sincere, nodding quickly in agreement.
"If all goes well, I'll rent us out an entire brothel. All night. Drinks on me."
Lyarra scoffed, shoving the man away as he made his way out of the hall — Podrick hot on his heels. She stepped to Shae's side once more, linking her arm with the girl in the hope that the motion would be comforting. Aianna stepped forward as well, resting her hand on Lyarra's shoulder. After another moment, Sansa stepped back to the group — Joffrey and his men stomping out of the hall. Sandor shot Lyarra one last look, one filled with too many emotions to properly decipher, as he moved past her.
"Some of those boys will never come back," Shae whispered.
"Joffrey will." Sansa argued. "The worst ones always live."
"I don't know why she wants me here," Sansa stated as Cersei flitted into the room. They were surrounded by highborn women, children, and servants alike. At the moment, they were perched on a set of bunk-beds. Shae and Aianna sat on one side, while Sansa and Lyarra sat on the other. "She's always saying how stupid I am. She hates me."
"Maybe she hates you less than she hates everyone else," Shae retorted, sitting forward to make sure the words carried their desired distance in the hushed room.
"I doubt it."
"Maybe she's jealous of you?" Lyarra chimed in.
"Why would she be jealous?"
Cersei chose that moment to call the girl over, beckoning her to her side with one word alone. Lyarra sat back, once again taking note of the fact that she was not invited. She may be a woman of higher standing, a lady of Winterfell — but she held no birthright, not really. Winterfell would only go to her if each of her nieces and nephews fell, alongside her sister-by-law — and Benjen, for that matter. She was the last in line. The least important figure they had left.
After a while, Lyarra wasn't certain how much time had passed. The queen had gone through at least three cups of wine already, even calling for Sansa to be poured one as well — though the girl hadn't so much as taken a sip of it. Lyarra sat mostly silent, curled into her seat while Aianna and Shae maintained an almost-decent conversation. Shae evidently held a grudge against the girl for running to the queen before, and yet she seemed almost civil throughout their talk.
Eventually, Sansa was able to peel herself away from the queen's side. At once, she collected a group of girls from the room to sit together in prayer. Ser Dontos sat in the corner, juggling as a few of the girls watch. Lyarra took note of the way that Cersei watched Sansa, something akin to interest in her stare.
"Sansa, come here, little dove," The queen called, at once breaking the girl from her prayer. Lyarra sighed, leaning back as Shae continued to watch their conversation from a distance. Aianna hadn't said a word in what felt like hours, instead staring down at the ground almost solemnly. Lyarra, thinking only of the battle transpiring outside, reached forward to take Aianna's hands into hers in comfort.
"Lyarra, you as well. Come here," Cersei called after her. Lyarra paused for a moment, before taking a seat on the pillow across from her niece. The queen had been coaxing Sansa into another glass of wine, nudging for Lyarra to be poured one as well.
"I should have been born a man," Cersei claimed as Sansa downed another glass. "I'd rather face a thousand swords than be shut up inside with this flock of frightened hens."
"They are your guests under your protection," Sansa argued, seemingly in disbelief at the queen's callousness.
"You did, admittedly, ask them here," Lyarra chimed in. Cersei scoffed, leaning back to take another swig of wine.
"It was expected of me, as it will be of you if you ever become Joffrey's queen. Despite how much the two of you try to prevent it,"
"If my wretched brother should somehow prevail," The queen continued, meeting Lyarra's stare with an almost amused glance. She knew something, Lyarra surmised. She had some sort of plan. "these hens will return to their cocks and crow of how my courage inspired them, lifted their spirits."
"And if the city should fall?" Sansa inquired. Cersei paused, her grin contorting itself into a scowl as the words hit her.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? The both of you." After a moment of silence stretched through the room, she continued, "The Red Keep should hold for a time, long enough for me to go to the walls and yield to Lord Stannis in person. If it were anyone else outside those gates, I might have hoped for a private audience, but this is Stannis Baratheon. I'd have a better chance of seducing his whores."
The pair went silent at that, Sansa seemingly taking the words in with wonder — as Lyarra continued to think of what would happen if Stannis beat Tyrion's forces back.
"Have I shocked you, little dove? Ask your aunt, tears aren't a woman's only weapon. The best one's between your legs. Learn how to use it."
Lyarra wasn't certain how long the queen continued to ramble on, telling Sansa of whatever it appeared she could think of. Whether it was the wine reaching her system, or the ongoing battle, the queen seemed almost loose at the moment.
"Jaime was taught to fight with sword and lance and mace, and I was taught to smile and sing and please," Cersei stated, and at once understanding flooded through Lyarra. She longed to be taught to fight as her brothers were. To live the life of a man. Only, she was raised to be a lady. She didn't have the freedom of a choice. "He was heir to Casterly Rock, and I was sold to some stranger like a horse to be ridden whenever he desired."
"You were Robert's queen," Sansa argued.
"And you will be Joffrey's. Enjoy."
At once, one of the Lannister guards swung open the doors — dashing forward as he grunted. Lancel, she recalled. Lancel Lannister.
"What news?"
"The Imp has set the river on fire," He started. Lyarra paused as she took in the thought. He'd used the wildfire, then. Pride threatened to bleed through her, as another thought of horror reached up to meet it. Fire. Sandor wouldn't take the flames well, no doubt. Worry tugged on her heart for a minute longer, before the boy continued, "Hundreds of ships are burning, maybe more. Stannis' fleet destroyed, but... But his troops have landed outside the city walls."
"Where is Joffrey?"
"On the battlements with Lord Tyrion,"
"Bring him back inside at once,"
Lancel argued for only a moment longer before begrudgingly agreeing, stomping out of the room with haste. Lyarra longed for nothing more than the king to die in battle, to be slain by one of Stannis' nameless warriors. And yet, she understood the woman before her then better than she ever had. Cersei knew what her son was. In truth, she likely couldn't stomach the sight of the boy. But he was her son. There is nothing in the world that one loves more than their children. Lyarra would give her life for Jon, for Reyne. Even now, she would stand in front of a blade for Sansa if she needed it.
"The battle is lost, Your Grace. Stannis' troops are at the gates. When the gold cloaks saw the king leaving, they lost all heart."
"Where is my son?"
"I want to escort him back to the battle."
"Why do I care what you want?"
Cersei pushed Lancel to the ground, taking her son Tommen in hand as she marched out of the door. Sansa jumped to placate the women in the room as quickly as she could manage, coaxing them all into humming a hymn. Aianna dashed to Lyarra's side, clasping her hand in hers.
"You must go. Both of you. Run to your chambers and bar your door," Shae whispered, pushing them in the direction of the door. She nodded to Aianna, signaling the girl to pull it open. "Stannis won't hurt you."
"Come with us,"
"I need to say goodbye to someone,"
Shae all but pushed them out of the door. Lyarra clutched onto Sansa's hand as she dragged her through the hall. Once they'd reached Sansa's quarters, she nudged the girl in. She thought then of the dagger Tyrion had given her just nights before. If she had to protect herself and Sansa, she'd need it more than ever. Lyarra patted her sides for a second, searching for the blade. She had it on her just before they'd gone up to Maegor's Holdfast. It had to be in her quarters, then. Just as Lyarra turned, Sansa reached for her wrist.
"You're not going to stay with me?"
"I need to grab something. Bolt the door. I'll knock twice, so you know it's me,"
Lyarra turned on her heel as the door was shut, Aianna quick to follow. Just as they'd reached her quarters, Aianna called out for her.
"Lyarra," She called, dropping any hint of formalities. She halted in her tracks, turning to the girl in concern. Aianna was shaking with terror, each limb trembling. Lyarra shot to her side, grasping her hands in hers as she attempted to meet her gaze.
"It's alright, Aianna. I'll keep us safe. Stannis' men won't hurt you,"
Tears began to cascade down Aianna's cheeks, building as each second passed. Lyarra shot forward, pulling the girl against her as she attempted to soothe her. Her heart all but shattered as she continued to bawl in her arms, pulling Lyarra closer to her. Despite what she'd done, the girl was still a sister to her. She needed her family, now more than ever. As Lyarra pulled back, a sharp pain speared her through the gut, twisting as nausea bubbled through her to meet it.
Blood began to pour down her, pooling at her core. She reared back, meeting Aianna head-on, as the girl only fell into another pit of sobs. She was overcome with the need to comfort her, even now. To keep her safe. As she should have with Lyanna. Aianna wrenched the knife from her gut, forcing a cry from Lyarra's lips. She fell to the ground, Aianna sliding down to meet her.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. She told me to. I didn't want to. Please, please believe me. I'm so sorry, Lyarra. I'm so sorry," Aianna reached to grab Lyarra's face, coating her cheeks with blood. Lyarra rasped, piercing cold flooding through her as she grasped onto her remaining force of life. At once, Aianna pulled back, and just before Lyarra could do so much as blink — shoved her dagger into her own gut, collapsing at her side.
A sharp cry left Lyarra's lips, as she dragged herself to the girl's body. Aianna was choking, blood dribbling from her lips as she convulsed. Ragged breaths fell from Lyarra's lips as she attempted to cover the girl's wounds. However, it was no use. The light fled from Aianna's eyes just as quickly, as Lyarra let out a harsh roar.
Within a moment, her own door swang open, a large figure collapsing at her feet. She recognized Sandor's touch at once, though her eyes drooped ever so slightly. Her vision was fading, the blood on her hands becoming thicker with every growing moment. For once, she found nothing but fear in Sandor's gaze. She paused, thinking of the battle itself. He shouldn't be here, she thought blearily. He left the battlefield. They'll be looking for him. She swatted him away once, before ultimately leaning into the warmth of his touch — as he raised her head to face him.
She could faintly make out the fact that he was speaking to her, though his voice was muffled. The sound, hardly recognizable.
"Sandor, Sandor," She called, reaching out to grasp onto his chainmail. "You need to go. They'll find you. You can't stay here,"
"What the fuck are you talking about? You think I'd just leave you here?"
"You have to. Take Sansa. She's in her chambers. Knock twice. Take her, and go. I'm just going to slow you down. I'm not.." She trailed off, choking on the thick blood that now coated her throat. Sandor let out a sound almost reminsicent of a whine, as he rubbed her cheeks with his thumbs in desperation. "Sandor, please. Please, just take her and go."
Before she could properly realize it, his lips were on hers — claiming them as his own. The last, and only, man she had kissed before was Gogni. Where Gogni was gentle and soft, Sandor was desperate and harsh. Her blood soaked hands pulled him closer, tugging on the strands of his hair that she could capture.
"I was waiting for you," He growled as he pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, "like a fucking idiot. I sat there, waiting for you. I've got a horse, we could've left. Could've taken the little bird. I'd keep you both safe,"
"You can keep her safe. For me, for both of us. But you need to go. Now."
Lyarra wasn't certain how long the two laid there, wrapped up in one another, Sandor pressing his temple against hers. He cursed as he stepped to his feet, scowling down at her. Lyarra did her best to force a smile to her lips, waving the man off. In truth, she had never been more afraid than she was in that very moment. She was afraid of facing Lyanna, of seeing Eddard again — knowing she'd failed to protect Sansa as long as she could. She was afraid of seeing Gogni after all this time. Of leaving Petyr on his own, knowing what he could become. Of leaving Arya alone, never certain of where she ended up. Of not seeing her children grow, not knowing if Jon would make it on the wall — how Reyne fared in Winterfell. Of finding love, only to lose it just as quickly.
"Sandor?" She called, just as he began to retreat. He paused, turning after a harsh sigh. His eyes were wide, his cheeks marred not only by his burns — but stray tears. Even in this light he was beautiful, she thought.
"Promise me that you'll protect her."
"I promise, Little Wolf."
Lyarra hacked out another puddle of blood, leaning into her hands as a wail fell from her lips. By the time she was able to look up again, Sandor was gone. She leaned into Aianna's side, gazing into the lifeless orbs. She only hoped, as her eyes fell shut, that Stannis' men would find her before the Lannisters did. Before Tyrion could find her body. If she was to die tonight, at the very least — the reign of the Lannisters could as well.
So. Um. Hey guys. Bit awkward of a moment I guess. Maybe. So. Sandor and Lyarra finally kissed! Yay! Go team! Um. Admittedly Sandor now believes Lyarra is dead. So, that's a little .. awko taco.
Then.. the whole Aianna bit. This was admittedly my plan from the beginning. I tried to make the fact that Aianna was progressively pulling away a bit obvious? But. That's life. Is she really dead? Who knows. Well. I know. I do in fact know. I guess you'll have to stick around to find out ... Anyways. I know this chapter moved a bit fast, and some of it .. kinda lacked logic. But that's the point. There's a lot going on. I hope you enjoyed (shakes). And as always, feel free to leave a comment below!
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Ever since Myrcella left the capital, an air of tension lingered within the halls of the keep. Lyarra seldom left Sansa's side, even to tend to the duties in Petyr's brothel. Rather, she'd put Ros in charge of business for the time being. Petyr likely wouldn't be pleased with the news, no doubt, but after he'd left with almost no warning — she found herself worrying less about what would upset him. As of late, Shae had been the one to tend to Lyarra's quarters in the morning. Aianna had been all but absent, a fact that had her gut swirling with concern.
Shae had been accompanying Lyarra to Sansa's chambers, when the pair noticed the redhead carving out a piece of her mattress frantically. Shae dashed to the other side of the bed, while Lyarra moved quickly to her niece's side. Sansa was whimpering as she carved into the fabric further. Shae shot her hand out, grasping the dagger. There, in the center of her bed, sat a thick scarlet stain of blood. Sansa had bled for the first time.
"It's alright," Shae soothed, though her tone held no real sense of comfort, "Give me that."
"If the queen sees," Sansa started, "I can have Joffrey's children now," Lyarra pulled Sansa off of the bed at once, moving with haste to find something to change the girl into. She did her best to not allow terror to bleed into her motions, but with the girl's words swimming through her head — it was becoming increasingly difficult. Sansa didn't deserve this life. No one did.
At once, heavy stomps echoed through the halls. Against her better judgment, relief flooded through Lyarra. She dashed forward to meet the man, all but dragging him into the room — slamming the door behind him. Sandor hardly bristled at the intrusion, but as he took in her frantic state — Lyarra noted the worry seeping into his gaze. He glanced around the room, pausing only when he noticed Shae still working to carve the mattress.
Within a moment, something akin to understanding became evident in his glare. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, his eyes widening in return. Sandor stomped forward, nodding in the direction of Sansa — signaling for Lyarra to tend to her niece.
"Help me flip it over." Shae commanded, holding no semblance of courtesy in her tone. Sandor grunted, moving quickly to the other side of the bed to help. He was directly defying his king, in every way. Lyarra knew well enough that the moment he noticed the blood-stained sheets, he should have ran like a good dog — informing the first person he found. Only, he seemed just as focused as the rest.
Lyarra began to wipe her niece down with a wet rag, halting in her motions only when a small girl, with thick red hair — reminiscent of Sansa's — stepped into the room. She paused, tilting her head as she noticed the pair raising the mattress. Sandor didn't so much as stumble, but she took note of the way he tensed. Just as quickly as the girl appeared, she stepped back out. Shae met Sandor's gaze, and at once the two followed after her. Shae, still with the dagger in hand, while Sandor likely only followed along to provide a level of intimidation.
Lyarra handed the rag to Sansa as delicately as she could manage, quickly dashing to her bed once more — with the intent of flipping it herself. Just as soon as she had flipped it to its side, a familiar voice called into the room. There, Aianna stood in the doorway — concern bleeding through her. Lyarra almost felt relieved, if not for the noticeable hesitation coating Aianna's figure. The girl slowly approached the mattress, seemingly conflicted.
"Aianna, please. Help me with this," She pled, grunting as she attempted to flip it over completely. Aianna only furrowed her brow, before turning on her heel — marching just as quickly in the opposite direction. Lyarra paused, horror bleeding through her as she realized the extent of what had just occurred. Aianna intended on running off to the queen. Their efforts had been useless, a fruitless attempt at protecting a young girl. Sansa's cries echoed through the room, as Lyarra regretfully moved to her side.
She would have expected it from anyone else — Sandor, most of all. But Aianna had been the one person she knew she could wholly trust. The one who reminded her most of the feeling of having a sister. The thought of betrayal lingered in her mind, growing only stronger when the queen and her guards filed into the room.
Bronn cut another stray fingernail from his hand, as a chorus of sighs swept through the room. Lyarra rested her head against Tyrion's desk, while Tyrion himself only leaned into his own hand, covering his eyes. Sansa had been with the queen ever since she'd discovered her bloodied sheets. Sandor had followed after the pair at once, seemingly rediscovering his loyalty to the Lannisters. Lyarra found herself almost thankful that Aianna hadn't come in only moments prior, and hadn't discovered Sandor in the act. She wasn't quite certain that she could handle the thought of harm coming to him for her sake.
Since the queen had all but commanded Sansa return to her own chambers with her, Lyarra stomped off to the only room she could find comfort in any longer. Tyrion hadn't seemed altogether surprised to see her, though concern was noticeable in his narrowed stare.
"Do you have to do that here?"
Bronn only brought the knife to another finger, tilting his head as he continued working. Tyrion raised his hands as he turned to Lyarra in defeat. She tilted her head, still resting against the desk, to narrow her eyes in return. Bronn sighed after another moment, tossing the dagger onto the desk.
"You should start wearing the gold cloak."
"I don't want to wear a gold cloak."
"You're commander of the City Watch. You shouldn't be dressed like a common sellsword."
"Oh, come now, Bronn," Lyarra remarked, sitting back in her seat as she reached for her own cup of wine. "Won't you consider it? I think the gold will really bring out your eyes,"
Bronn snorted, as Tyrion shot her a glare — no doubt carrying the message 'you're not helping.' It was moments like this, in the calm of the hand's quarters — that Lyarra felt as if not everything had to be life or death. If she could keep Sansa safe, they could have a life. One filled with the sharp prick of a Lion's claws every now and then, but it might be the best they would find.
"A cloak slows you down in a fight. And the gold catches the light, so you're nice and easy to spot at night."
"Well, you're not sneaking through alleyways any longer." Tyrion sighed, crossing his arms in front of him.
"That you know of."
Tyrion shot the man an unimpressed look, as Bronn only smirked with his retort. "You're supposed to stand out,"
"We had a deal," Bronn argued. "And wearing a gold cloak wasn't part of it."
Tyrion groaned as loud as he likely could possibly manage, agreeing — if only to silence the man across from him. At once, silence swept through the room. Lyarra raised a brow, as Bronn tapped his fingers rhythmically against the desk. The action had Tyrion tensing once more, and she reached out to take a swig of wine — as another argument took place.
"What?"
"What? What? Why are you staring at me?" Tyrion complained. Bronn only let out another snort, leaning back to place his boots on the side of Lyarra's chair.
"Maybe I just think you're pretty. You ever consider that?" Bronn retorted, glancing away as he rolled his eyes. Lyarra took note of the shade of pink flooding Tyrion's cheeks, but he coughed it off all the same. She moved to comment on it, before being quickly silenced by a dangerous glare from the man.
"I mean, really. You don't want me cleaning my nails. You don't want me looking your way. Why am I here?"
"To help me plan the defense of King's Landing! Or drink. Whatever comes first!"
Bronn harrumphed as he moved to his feet, letting out a sharp chuckle as he spun around.
"Stannis will be here any day," Tyrion continued, now sitting fully upright in his seat. Lyarra covered her grin with the cup of wine, as Bronn began shuffling through the mounds of books littering Tyrion's desk. Each seemed just as disinteresting as the last, as he tossed them over his shoulder. Lyarra could hardly hold back her snort, against her best efforts.
"And one of these explains how to beat him?"
Tyrion flipped to the cover of his book defiantly, as Lyarra begrudgingly stood to move to his side.
"An History of the Great Sieges of Westeros by Archmaester Ch'Vyalthan," Tyrion read defiantly, trailing off at the last word, no doubt mispronouncing it entirely. Lyarra raised a brow, turning to Bronn in confusion.
"Chevalteesh." Lyarra corrected, smirking into her cup as the two men continued to try out different ways of pronouncing the name.
"Shevalatesh."
"Shevateesh."
"Chilvaratan."
"Shivthan."
"I'd swap all your books for a few good archers," Bronn argued, turning from the book at once as another figure stalked into the room. Varys greeted them all, taking a moment to send Lyarra an indecipherable look. Ever since Ned's execution, she'd only been around the eunuch maybe a handful of times. Each time, he'd simply stare at her — as if he was waiting for her to connect some puzzle piece in her mind.
The group continued to argue on about various topics, as Lyarra took her seat once more — this time, dragging it to Bronn's side. Varys paused after a moment, leaning forward to take note of what Tyrion had been reading. He seemed to lighten up at the sight.
"Ah, 'The Great Sieges of Westeros.', a thrilling subject. Shame Archmaester Ch'vyalthan wasn't a better writer."
Tyrion raised a hand as Varys pronounced the name as 'Shiveyealthan,' to which Bronn only scoffed.
"Are you certain it's not Shivalatesh?" Lyarra inquired, taking delight in the amusement Varys seemed to find in the question.
"Quite certain, I'm afraid,"
The days grew shorter, time passing quicker than she could catch it. Stannis and his men would reach King's Landing by morning. Even now, she wasn't certain what would happen if they overtook the city. Part of her longed for the death of the king. To see his head on a spike, just beside her brother. Yet, she couldn't say for certain that she wouldn't be quick to join them.
Stannis seemed a fair man, from what Ned had described. She had no reason to fear him, and yet she found herself unable to sleep at the thought. Bronn was down at one of the brothels, while Tyrion was locked away with Shae no doubt. She couldn't find solace in anyone but herself. Aianna was nowhere to be found, Sansa was tucked in bed. Sandor..
Just then, a fist wrapped at the door. Lyarra hesitated as she sat up, balling the quilt in her fists. She forced herself to trudge to the door, pulling it back in the slightest. As if he'd heard her, there Sandor stood — holding two silver cups in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other. He stomped in without so much as a welcome, nudging for her to shut the door behind him. She scrambled to do so at once, following after him as he poured them both a cup.
"The Little Bird?" He questioned, his gruff voice coating any form of concern he may have felt. Lyarra reached forward, grasping the cup in her hands to calm her nerves.
"She wouldn't tell me what the queen said. She hasn't been herself, ever since.." Lyarra trailed off, thinking back to the day that the crowd had swarmed them on their way back to the keep. Sansa had never detailed the true extent of what had occurred, only that the men who'd cornered her hadn't defiled her. That Sandor had stepped in. "Thank you, for protecting her."
Sandor only grunted, shrugging as he ripped the clasps of his gauntlets off.
"Would've done the same for you."
"You did," She argued, sitting forward then to meet his glare. "You did the very same for me, that day. And each day before that. You kept your promise to me, Sandor. You've protected us,"
For a moment, Sandor was silent. He didn't break away from her stare once, only furrowing his brow as he seemed to take in the words. Maybe it was the thought that she could die tomorrow. Or rather, the thought that he could die in battle. But, for once, Lyarra felt no need to hide the true extent of her words from him. Petyr had raved about how Sandor was not a man to be trusted. And yet, in this moment Lyarra was certain there was no one she would rather have at her side.
"Never needed my protection. Not like I can do very much, anyway. As much as I fucking try, you'll never stop sticking your neck out for that girl. It'll get you killed, one of these days,"
"Aye, it might. And it will be worth it, all the same. I would give my life for my family willingly,"
Sandor scoffed, pulling his gaze away as what felt like anger flooded through the room.
"So, it's all fine, then? If you die, the girl's got no family left in the city. Not a fucking soul. No one to protect her. That's alright by you? It's just fucking fine if you leave her in the jaws of those golden-haired cunts?"
Lyarra paused, throwing her cup down — caring little for the splash that erupted from within. Aggravation bled through her, rising to meet his in equal measure. She stood at once, the force of her movement kicking the chair down behind her. Sandor was just as quick to meet her, rising to his feet with a raised brow.
"None of this is alright. Not a fucking thing. You know that as well as I do. And don't you dare act as if I don't. My brother's head rests on a pike, just down the hall. My son lays in wait on the wall, while I have no idea where my daughter is. My nephew is at war. My niece lays trapped in the den of a lion. But if it came down to it, I would give my life for hers without thinking twice. If she needed me to."
"What she needs is her aunt. Alive. What she needs is you. Fuck's sake. I need you,"
Lyarra paused, heaving ragged breaths as her chest rose and fell in quick movements. Sandor, however, was entirely still — safe for the sharp breaths that fell from his lips.
"You don't mean that,"
Sandor punched out a short laugh, reaching down then to take another swig of wine. "You've haunted me my entire fucking life. Every fucking day. I could never forget how you looked at me the day of the tourney. When we were children. You didn't see me as a dog. As a monster. Thought about it every fucking day since. When I saw you in Winterfell, you still looked at me the same. I couldn't tell if you were just a fucking idiot, a lost girl — who doesn't know how to look away from the jaws of a beast. Or if you saw something. Something only you could see."
"Sandor," Lyarra started, though she was quickly cut off with a sharp nod.
"Even now, you still look at me the same way, Little Wolf."
"And how is that?"
Sandor paused, stepping tentatively into Lyarra's space. She backed up in return, careful to not scare him away. The two paused only once her back was against the wall. He raised a hand, placing it against her neck with a gentle touch. The feeling had Lyarra's gut swirling with warmth, heat rising to her cheeks.
"'s your mind, Little Wolf. I can't tell you what you think. If you were smart, you'd run now. Stay as far as you could from me. You'll be grateful for my help, when the Little Bird is queen — and I'm the only thing standing in front of you both. That's all you need me to be. A dog."
"But you're not," She argued, her voice hardly above a whisper now. Sandor leaned closer, their breaths mingling in the heat. "You're not a dog, not to me. You've never been. I wanted to see you as one. To believe that you were nothing more than Joffrey Baratheon's hound. But I can't. In this light, with me — you're only Sandor. You don't need to be anything else. Right now, you're nothing more than a man. And in this light, you're beautiful,"
Sandor let out a sharp growl, almost disbelieving, save for the intensity in his stare. She forced herself to gaze imploringly into his eyes, as she hesitantly raised a palm to his cheek. His brow furrowed at once, taking in the sight. As her hand found its target, he flinched from her touch. She kept her hand there, raised at his side as she waited. For a moment, nothing could be heard. Not the sound of their breaths, nor their heartbeats. Not even the commotion from outside. After another beat, Lyarra tried again — gently placing her palm against his scarred cheek.
This time, Sandor almost seemed to lean into the touch. Lyarra allowed her thumb to rub the spot just beneath his eye, as he hummed. The two sat like that for a moment longer, Sandor keeping his eyes shut as she continued her movements. He was almost uncharacteristically silent. It was unsettling, in a way, to see him so comfortable. He pulled back after another beat, swatting her hand away as he leaned down — pressing his forehead against hers. He placed his right hand in between the column of her throat, and her chest — the size of it alone covering half of her skin. Without the metal of his gauntlet, the callousness of his fingers had the hair on Lyarra's arms sticking up.
She felt bare, open for his eyes to see. Sandor leaned further, as their breaths swirled together once more. Just as her eyes delicately slipped shut, the city bells rang out. Lyarra startled, as Sandor pulled back with a growl. He stomped to the table, pulling his gauntlets on with haste — as he moved to the door, intent on leaving without saying another word. Against her better judgment, Lyarra reached out — grabbing him by the wrist as she had so many times before.
"Come back. I don't care what you need to do. I don't care who you kill. Come back to me,"
Sandor ripped his wrist from her grasp, before reaching to pull her against his chest in one quick motion.
"They can't take you from me. You're not theirs to take." She wept, pulling him closer by the chain adorning his armor.
"Aye. Nothing will stop me from coming back to you. I don't care how many of those fucks I need to kill. That Baratheon cunt himself couldn't keep me from you."
With that, Sandor stomped out of the room — shooting Lyarra one more longing glance. She stumbled in her step, forcing her brain to catch up with her as she dashed out of her room herself, moving as quickly as she could to Sansa's chambers.
Soooooooo..... Heyyyyyy..... That happened. Omfg we finally got a full on romance scene guys are we so pumped??? That took a lot out of me to write. Initially I was throwing around the idea of making it a Full On romance scene, if you catch my drift, but that just didn't seem realistic to me??? Sandor is still. Very repressed. In a way. They didn't even kiss, and I can't say that even if the bells hadn't been rung — that they actually would have.
The next chapter.. will be short. But a lot is going to happen in it. Be prepared. That's all I am going to say.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter. And as always, please feel free to leave any comments you have below!
The flames engulfed Lyarra's body like a blanket. Her vision was hindered by thick, black smoke. She could feel the vibration of the screams surrounding her, everywhere she turned, another became more discernible. Her feet struggled to carry her weight, building into a sprint as she ran her hands along the stone walls. She was in Riverrun. At the very least, she knew that. She could recognize these walls as well as her own.
She could feel words pouring out of her mouth, frantic and desperate — and yet, they were impossible to capture. It felt as if someone else was in control of her body, pulling her strings as though she were a puppet.
All of a sudden, the screams quelled into silence. The flames dwindled, leaving only a mist-like level of smoke lingering in the air. Lyarra paused, taking in the sight. Her feet carried her forward, into a room which she could only vaguely recall being the main hall.
Just before her stood Petyr, standing tall on a pile of something she could not decipher. He was as she knew him to be. The small, thin, frail boy with wide, hopeful eyes. He turned to her with glee, and at once, her heart filled with warmth. The boy that she knew, that she loved — had returned to her. It was then, that she noticed the dagger in his hands. Memories flooded in one by one. She'd seen that dagger not long ago, in the hands of Catelyn Stark. It was Tyrion's, or so Petyr had said.
Her vision cleared, taking in the true sight before her. Petyr was coated in blood, the dagger digging into the tip of his finger as he beamed at her. As he stepped down to approach her, she noticed what he'd been standing on all that time. Piles of bodies. Each, someone that she had come to care for in her life. Lyanna, Brandon, Ned, Benjen, Her mother, Her father, Catelyn, Jon, Reyne, Arya, Sansa, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Old Nan, Wyllis, Jory, Jaime, Tyrion, Bronn, Ros, Aianna — and in the very front, Sandor. His body was charred, unburnt only on the left side of his face.
"Don't you see, Lyarra? Don't you see that this is all we have ever wanted?" Petyr, with the tone of a child, inquired. As he approached, his voice seemed to deepen — taking on a mature tilt. With each step, the boy grew — morphing into the man that she had come to know. "We don't need anyone else. Only each other. All we ever dreamt of is in our grasp, Lyarra. Don't let it go to waste."
Petyr reached forward to take her chin into his grasp, thus tainting it in the blood of her loved ones. She trembled in his hold, and yet even still, she leaned into his touch. He was warm, familiar. She tried to tell herself to move, to get away from him — but he only brought her closer. At once, pain shot through her — blossoming from her stomach. Blood began to pool, pouring out of her in waves. The dagger twisted, forcing Lyarra to look up in horror. Petyr only met her fear with a sharp grin, one bearing no concern. He pushed the dagger in deeper, leaning into her space.
With each passing second, terror and pain bled through her in equal waves. Petyr was only moving closer, with his gaze trained on her lips. Just as he moved to claim her lips as his own, she was jostled from her sleep — a heavy weight placed on her chest. She blinked blearily, taking in all that had just happened. At once, she jumped from her bed — clutching onto the figure before her.
"Don't let them get me, please," She begged, though she had yet to take the time to address who the figure was. All she knew in that moment was fear. "Don't let the flames get me. Don't let him hurt me!"
"I won't let anyone hurt you, Little Wolf. You're alright," The voice promised, now pulling her against their chest. At once, Lyarra nestled into the figure — as if she were nothing more than a child. The touch was comforting, familiar. Eventually, she drifted back to sleep — the figure's warmth still covering her, holding her close. 'I'll keep you safe,' lingered in the back of her head, as her vision faded to black once more.
Lyarra pulled Sansa's hair back, brushing it gently with the softest comb she could find. Sansa had her own handmaidens, a number of them in fact. And yet, only Lyarra was allowed near her hair before bed. The silence that stretched between the two was not an uncomfortable one, with Lyarra humming under her breath as she focused on each strand.
Sansa had only just returned from supping with the royal family. More often than not, she chose not to speak of what transpired during the evenings she spent with them. Aianna was only a few feet away, preparing Sansa's bed for rest, when a light knock echoed through the room. Lyarra stalled in her motions, nodding for Aianna to open the door.
The door shut just as quickly, a small woman stepping inside in one fluid motion. Her hair was thick, dark curls cascading down her figure. Shae, she thought. Lyarra did not know her well, but from her past evenings with Tyrion — she knew one thing. One, Tyrion Lannister was a mouthy drunk — and could not keep secrets from her if he tried — and two, she was someone of importance to the man. What she was to him, Lyarra was not certain. But, she did know that Shae was someone he cared for.
"Who are you?" Sansa questioned, sitting up at once to face the woman. Lyarra reached to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, rubbing it slightly with her thumb.
"I'm Shae, my lady. Your new handmaiden." Her accent was thick, and her expression gave nothing away. Even still, Lyarra felt less tense than she likely should have. Aianna, on the other hand, seemed wary — her eyes wide with distrust, as she took in the sight of her.
"I didn't know I needed a new handmaiden." Sansa glanced over her, raising a brow. "You're not from here."
Shae shook her head, meeting Lyarra's stare. Only a night prior, she had been drinking at her side — as Bronn and Tyrion attempted to sing some vulgar shanty. Silence stretched through the room once more, as Shae did not so much as blink.
"What are you doing?"
"Waiting for you to tell me what to do."
"She shouldn't have to tell you to do things, you should just do them." Aianna chimed in, narrowing her eyes. Lyarra bit her tongue to hold back a response, instead shooting the girl a light, almost wary smile.
"There will be plenty of time for that later, I'm sure." Lyarra retorted, moving at once from her niece's side. Shae did not once show any sign of recognition, but her eyes did lighten in the slightest at her approach. "Come, sit with us. We were just preparing Sansa for bed."
Shae agreed at once, taking a seat across from the pair as Lyarra attempted to coax Sansa into a state of calm once more. Shae reached out, taking a stray grape from a bowl on top of the girl's table. Aianna bristled, moving to her side in quick steps to pull it from her grasp before she could have any more.
"Have you ever been a handmaiden before?" She bit, scowling down at the woman. Shae, to her own credit, only smirked.
"Yes."
"For whom?"
"Lady Zuriff."
"Lady Zuriff?" Sansa inquired, leaning forward in curiosity. Shae grinned, reaching to take another grape from the bowl that Aianna now held. "There is no Lady Zuriff in this city."
"Then it is safe to assume that she wasn't in this city then, is it not?" Shae remarked, although her tone held no venom. Sansa went red at once, muttering under her breath.
"Well I don't know how they did things in that city, but in this city handmaidens wait on ladies — not the other way around," Aianna snapped, at once turning on her heel and marching out the door. The sudden outburst had Lyarra's gut churning in discomfort, but she swallowed it down with a smile, instructing Shae to wave it off.
"Do you want me to leave?" Shae questioned, directing her inquiry to Sansa alone. The thought gave Lyarra pause, as relief flooded through her. Someone, it seemed, had her niece's best interest at heart. It was a placating thought. Sansa shook her head, and for the remainder of the evening, the three sat in comfortable silence.
Once Sansa was tucked in, Lyarra followed behind Shae as subtly as she could manage — until the pair were safely locked in Tyrion's quarters. Unsurprisingly, Bronn was already half-drunk, with a stumbling Tyrion at his side. The pudgy man from before, Podrick — she'd learned was his name — was waving his hands frantically, trying his best to catch the man before he fell.
Just as she had the nights prior, Lyarra spent her evening drinking with the group, the sound of her sharp laughter echoing through the halls.
The following days had Lyarra scattered. Each free moment she had was spent in the brothel, buried in Petyr's paperwork. He and Tyrion were working side by side on something that she did not dare think of longer than she had to. The thought of those two men anywhere near one another was frightening enough. Tyrion was becoming increasingly comfortable in his position as Lord Hand, it seemed. Something that Lyarra couldn't help but think highly of. He seemed a fair man, one who, for once, seemed to have the best interest of the city itself in mind. Petyr later divulged the information that Tyrion was working to put Grand Maester Pycelle away, with the thought that he was behind the death of Jon Arryn.
When Lyarra asked if Petyr thought the rumor to hold any validity, he only shrugged. Something he often did when the murder of Jon Arryn came into discussion. Ros seemed to be her one comfort left, as her smile never faltered — a fact that filled her with both warmth and dread in equal measure. They both remembered their previous conversation with Petyr, where he all but threatened the woman. It stuck in her mind, never once waning when he came into view.
One night, she managed to have Ros brought to The Keep — something that took hours of pleading with Petyr to accomplish. That night, she did not do much more than drink — with Ros, Shae, Aianna, and Sansa at her side. Sansa only nervously laughed at the other women's tales, but Lyarra did take note of the light of curiosity within her eyes. For a moment, with the women surrounding her — it felt as if she had her sister back. A part of Lyanna flickered in each of them. Aianna never once took her eyes off of Shae, but she did seem to relax each time Lyarra shot her a smile.
From then on, it was easier to convince Petyr to allow Ros into The Keep. Some nights, she'd even join the group of herself, Tyrion, Bronn, and Shae. It was a strange pairing, but her wit matched each of theirs in equal measure. It was easier to face the troubles of the Red Keep with those she could trust at her side, she thought.
"You're here to answer for your brother's latest treasons."
Joffrey peaked over his crossbow, looking down at Sansa through it. The girl let out another harsh cry, reaching forward to block his view. Lyarra did her best to wretch herself out of Meryn Trant's grasp, but he only dug his fingers into her shoulder deeper.
"Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part. You know that, I beg you, please-"
"Ser Lancel, tell her of this outrage."
The man, Lancel, stepped out of the crowd then, going on a pointless ramble — detailing how Robb beat the Lannister forces, describing how the Northmen ate the bodies of the slain. Had Lyarra been in any other position, she would have scoffed. Sandor scowled from his position before the king, standing just out of Sansa's reach.
"Killing you would send your brother a message," Joffrey remarked, squinting down the center of his crossbow once more. Lyarra froze, meeting Sandor's gaze at once as his stare intensified. He knew what she was thinking of, before she could even act on it. Her movement was quick, as she kicked Meryn's shin, dashing forward to stand in front of her niece. Sandor did not do so much as startle, but his glare turned narrow. Meryn Trant dashed forward again to regain control of her, but the king raised a hand — cutting off the movement quickly.
"Or, perhaps, I'll send him your head. That'd be even better," Joffrey exclaimed, cocking the bow with ease. Lyarra forced herself to hold her chin high, pushing Sansa further behind herself. She felt herself tremble, only clenching her chin tighter to avoid falling apart at the seams. Joffrey could easily kill her now, with Sansa quick to follow. All of this would have been for nothing. The crowd would jeer, as they mocked her traitorous corpse.
"But my mother insists on keeping you both alive," He snarled, reluctantly laying the crossbow back down at his side. "Stand."
Lyarra turned at once to pull the girl up, slinging her arm across her shoulder. The two wobbled in their step as they faced the king. He took a heavy seat on the throne, resting one leg on top of the other. "So, we'll have to send him a message some other way."
"Meryn," He called, and at once the man stepped forward — spinning them both to face him. "Leave my lady's face, I like her pretty. Do what you will with the other one."
Meryn Trant turned to Lyarra first, giving her only a second to blink before bringing his fist down on her cheek. Pain flooded through her, hit after hit. First, he dedicated his time to her face — striking her across her cheek twice. Then, he hit her more times than she could count against her gut. Lyarra struggled not to cry out, biting the side of her cheek with fervor. As she fell to her knees, Trant continued his assault, bringing the hilt of his sword down against the back of her neck. He tore open the front of her dress, leaving it to slip down her back as she raised her hands frantically to cover herself. Lyarra could recognize the boots in front of her. She knew well enough that Sandor hadn't moved a muscle, nor would he.
It should have stung. She should have cursed his name. And yet, no bitter feeling came. No amount of surprise. She expected this, predicted it even. Lyarra only wished that he would break out of Joffrey's hold to defend Sansa, though she knew it was foolish.
"What an idea! Ser Meryn, I believe my lady is overdressed as well. Unburden her," The king commanded, causing Lyarra to spin to her niece in fear. Moving stung. She could feel each limb screaming in pain, and yet nothing caused her more distress than the thought of Sansa suffering the same fate. She felt Sansa's cry before she heard it, causing Lyarra to stumble to her knees. They'd given the girl almost the same treatment. Her dress swung open, tears coating her cheeks as she fell to her knees.
Lyarra forced herself to crawl to Sansa's side, covering her body with what little of her own dress remained.
"If you want Robb Stark to hear us, we're going to have to speak louder!"
Meryn Trant raised his blade to cut the girl, before another voice rang out. Relief flooded through her, as she moved at once to stand in front of her niece. Tyrion caught her stare before anything else, concern bleeding through him.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Bronn followed just behind the man, with nothing more than a raised brow. Though, Lyarra was grateful to even receive that much concern from him. Tyrion's brow furrowed at the sight of the pair, causing Lyarra to drop her head in shame. The fact that she was practically bare to the court was not lost to her. Instead of dwelling on it, she leaned to cover her niece further — who was now crying into her chest.
"What kind of a knight beats two helpless women?"
"The kind who serves his king, Imp."
"Careful now," Bronn remarked, "We don't want to get blood all over your pretty white cloak."
"Someone get these two something to cover themselves with," Tyrion called. At once, Sandor was at her side, ripping his gold cloak off with a harsh tug to wrap around her shoulders. Before she could let him fully settle, she pushed the fabric off, nodding at once to give it to Sansa. His glare was instant, and she could almost faintly make out the growl that followed it. She pulled her dress tighter around herself as he stood again.
In what almost felt like amusement, she watched as Sandor stomped over to Meryn Trant, ripping his own cloak off with a growl. The man blanched, but did nothing to fight against the towering figure before him. Sandor returned to wrap the cloak around her, pulling it tight — as their eyes met.
It felt as if the room had gone silent. As if no one was there but the two of them. She found concern in his gaze — fear, even. He raised a hand to her cheek, one that lingered in hesitation. The action should have made her flinch after what she had just faced. Only, she felt herself longing to lean into his touch. The two were broken from their stupor by Tyrion, who approached the pair almost reluctantly. His stare lingered on Sandor, almost questioningly, before he raised a hand to Sansa. Sandor stepped away in an instant, making his way to his king's side once more.
Bronn stepped forward to raise a hand to Lyarra as well. As she stepped to her feet, her legs threatened to give out under her. Bronn raised an arm to both keep the cloak up, and allow her to lean into his side. It was an act of weakness. She was well enough aware of that. Her niece was far braver than she was, as had been proven time and time again. She was ready to face the battles that Lyarra was not, though she never should have been forced to. Sansa was marching forward, Tyrion following in her wake as he apologized. Lyarra should have been strong enough to march at her side. But she couldn't. Instead, she found Bronn's assistance comforting, as the two made their way out of the room slowly.
"Lady Stark," Tyrion muttered as Sansa continued to move forward — out of the room with a measure of calm, with her handmaidens following her quickly behind. "You may survive us yet."
Lyarra did not force herself to hold back a snort, as the group exited the hall. He was right, in truth. Sansa was proving herself stronger by the day. She was adapting far quicker than Lyarra had been. Bronn shook her from the thought once they reached her quarters, ushering her in with Tyrion at his side. The two stayed for only a moment longer, inquiring if she had a need for anything else.
That night, Lyarra did not dare move from her bed — save to pour herself a cup of wine. Aianna never once left her side, not until she was certain that she was asleep. The girl laid at Lyarra's side, brushing her hair as — for once, she spoke of her childhood. There was safety in the thought of thinking about someone else's family, someone else's life. There was safety in Aianna, she thought to herself.
A harsh rap at the door startled Lyarra from another fit of restless slumber. She strained to pull herself out of bed, stumbling to the door blearily. With a level of hesitance, she yanked the door open — fearful of what laid on the other side. Sandor's glower filled her with instant relief. He stomped in at once, all but slamming the door behind himself.
Before she could do much of anything, his hands were on her — raising her chin so that he could properly look over her. Heat blossomed through her with his touch, though she swallowed that thought down just as quickly as it appeared.
"The next time he hurts you, I'll kill the fucking cunt," He growled, stepping away for only a moment to retrieve a wet rag. Aianna had already done all that he intended to do, but Lyarra couldn't bring herself to tell him. It was such a staggering difference from the man that the world knew as 'The Hound' that she almost felt her legs give out in confusion. She kicked herself then, at that thought. The man before her now wasn't 'The Hound', it was Sandor. Not even Sandor of House Clegane, brother of Gregor — 'The Mountain'. In this moment, it was only Sandor. The man who cradled her chin with a level of gentleness that he shouldn't be capable of. Who swore to protect her time and time again.
"You shouldn't look at me like that, Little Wolf,"
His words gave her pause, trepidation threatening to bleed through her. She raised a brow. Admittedly, she had been staring at the man — intently, with the thought that if she looked close enough she could find his true motivations. Petyr, only nights prior in a dream, had held her face just as Sandor did now. And in that moment, it felt wrong — frightening even. Only now, the action made her feel safe.
"Like what?"
Sandor only grunted, intent on ignoring the question no doubt. The thought brought a fond smile to the corner of her lips, which caused Sandor to roll his eyes. Once he was certain he'd covered every wound, he stepped back — his brow raised with a question that Lyarra's brain was too muddled to decipher. As he nodded, she glanced down. No one had tended to the marks Meryn Trant left against her gut, she realized. She'd waved even Aianna away from them.
With another wave of reluctance, Lyarra raised her tunic to the underside of her chest, leaving her stomach bare. Sandor hesitated for only a moment, hissing under his breath at the sight of her. For a moment, the sound had heat rising to her cheeks — before she realized at once, that it was a hiss of disdain. She looked down, then, to meet the wounds head on. Lyarra was littered with various bruises. The entire lower half of her was purple, with some patches darker than others.
The feeling of the rag against her skin forced her to jump, before Sandor placed his other hand against her shoulder. She intently avoided his eye, instead focusing on gazing out of the window in her room. She could just barely make out the sights of the city, of the lights that were still blindingly bright. Once he was done, Sandor was on his feet before she could blink. As was his way, he intended to say very little. It was only when she reached forward to grasp his wrist, that he fully paused.
"Don't go, please." She whispered, as if she was afraid of someone hearing. Sandor paused, grunting under his breath as he nodded. It wasn't the first time she'd asked him to do so, and it likely wouldn't be the last. Only, rather than take his seat across the room as he had before — he pulled a chair to the side of her bed. As he took Lyarra's discarded cup of wine in hand, he nodded once more, signaling for her to go back to sleep.
The last thing Lyarra saw before sleep invaded her thoughts, was the light of the candle at her bed — illuminating Sandor's face. He was sort of beautiful, she thought to herself. A beautiful man, in a monstrous city.
Tyrion had only just poured Lyarra another cup of wine, when Ros all but sprinted into the room — another girl, one that she recognized from the brothel, nestled in her arms. Lyarra shot up, reaching out to the girl. They had been a 'gift' for the king, an effort from Tyrion to placate the boy's streak of evil. He'd only told Lyarra once the deed had been done, a fact that wracked her nerves.
Petyr was gone. He'd left the night prior, kissing Lyarra on the cheek as he left. For the time being, she was to manage the brothel — keep it afloat while he was away. Tyrion later informed her that he was leaving to speak with Catelyn Stark, to deliver Ned's bones to her. He seemed almost shocked that Petyr hadn't told her where he was going, that he'd kept it all from her. Betrayal lingered within her, though she was not certain why. Knowing would have only upset her further. She would have wanted to be at his side, to see her family once more — but she knew fully well she couldn't leave King's Landing.
The girl wailed then, burrowing herself into Lyarra's arms. The king had taken out his cruelty on the girls, then. An unsurprising thought, although her heart panged with guilt all the same. Tyrion seemed just as distraught as she was, wrapping the girl in a blanket instantly.
Ros did not return to The Keep again in the days to come, not that anyone had been surprised. Lyarra wanted more than anything to keep the girls safe, to keep them away from Joffrey's wrath. She knew, then, that if she wanted to protect the ones she cared about: she needed to play the game, as it was meant to be played.
Tyrion, who seemed to have the same thought, reluctantly agreed to allow her to aid him in his current tasks. At the moment, he was intent on luring information on his sister out of his cousin, Lancel Lannister. Rumors spiraled that the two were close, as close as Cersei was with Jaime. The thought gave her pause, as she was forced to confront the mental image of Jaime Lannister. Jaime, who remained a prisoner to her nephew. Who had slain Jory. Jaime, who had hesitated each time he'd been forced to come close to causing her pain.
Lancel came back with information quicker than the pair had expected. Lyarra and Bronn had been drinking when Tyrion returned with the news. Cersei was commissioning wildfire — barrels of it, he'd claimed — with the intent of using them against Stannis' men. It was no surprise, in truth, that Stannis Baratheon intended on marching on King's Landing. He was the rightful heir, by all true meaning of the word. What she wasn't certain of, however, was how Stannis would respond to the Stark girls remaining in the city. Would he slay them, as he would the other men? Would they be spared, due to Ned's unwavering loyalty to the man?
Tyrion, in one of the following evenings, had given her a dagger. A small thing, one that she could easily tuck away if she needed to. The action itself meant more to Lyarra than she could properly express. For once, she had a way to properly protect herself. She no longer had to rely on the promises of those around her.
The day that Princess Myrcella was sent to Dorne, Lyarra knew it was only a matter of time before Tyrion properly incurred the queen's wrath. Myrcella was her only daughter, her one bit of light left in the world. Pity for the queen threatened to break through at that thought, but she ignored it intently. It was one of Tyrion's smarter moves, in truth. Myrcella would be safe in Dorne, and it would create a number of powerful allies in the respective city.
However, as the girl bawled from the retreating boat, that thought was not made any easier. Myrcella was sweet, kinder than the city deserved. Lyarra could only pray to the old gods that she would find a safer life in Dorne.
"Come, dog," Joffrey bit as he stepped away from the scene, scowling at the open-emotion that his family was willing to show. Sandor scowled at the name before following suit, with the remainder of his guard on their heels. Lyarra reached out to rub Sansa's shoulder as they followed after the boy. A crowd had formed in the city as they made their way back to The Keep. As the jeers grew louder, Lyarra knew at once that something was not right. Tyrion spun around, whispering for the guards to take the prince back to The Keep at once.
The moment that someone in the crowd threw a pile of dung at Joffrey's head, everything became a flurry of movement. Sansa, who was once safely tucked into her side, was nowhere to be found. She could just barely make out her handmaidens crowding the girl, as Lyarra was pushed harshly to the ground. Joffrey was shouting, loud enough that she could hear it over the current cacophony. He commanded his men to kill each of them, everyone they could find.
Lyarra felt someone dig their hand into her ribs, as she attempted to push through to reach Sansa. The girl had disappeared into the crowd, once again. In the distance, she could only make out Sandor — who still towered over the rest. Their eyes met only once, as she was pushed to the ground once more. Lyarra cursed under her breath, bolting into the first alleyway she could find. If only she could hide for a moment, she'd be able to reach the rest later. It was then, that the sound of voices became louder.
Men were following her, a group of them — each with dirt coating their body. The leader of the group, a particularly large man with a patch of missing hair on the top of his head, stomped towards her. Her hair had fallen from its place, her gown dirtied and tattered.
"Don't," She warned, stepping back as she realized with horror that she was cornered. "Don't touch me!"
The man snarled, reaching to rip her gown. Lyarra unsheathed her dagger hastily, digging it into his throat. She twisted the blade, burying it deeper until his blood was gushing down her hands. The men behind him only faltered in the slightest, before they dashed forward. Lyarra pulled back, swinging once more with the dagger — as they attempted to pull her back. Each man found her dagger buried in either their throat or their gut, leaving only one behind. It was only when a sudden scream shot through the alleyway, that Lyarra went quiet herself. Sansa was cowering in the corner of the room, as Sandor wiped his blade clean.
Lyarra, who was now all but covered in blood, frantically searched for her dagger — burying it back against her side. Sandor did not hesitate to grab her, slinging her across his shoulder, as he pushed Sansa against his chest. She could no longer hear the jeers of the crowd, though she was certain they were still just as loud. It was all but silent, as she focused solely on the sound of her own breathing. Terror bled through her, as she thought over what had almost just occurred. As Sandor laid her down once more, this time surrounded by Lannister guards, he pulled her to face him — looking into her eyes with an evident question. Lyarra shook her head dazedly, and at once he pulled away.
Sansa was quick to run into her arms, weeping loud enough that sound slowly faded back into thought. Lyarra wrapped her arms around the girl, brushing her hair back as she hummed. Sandor seemed to frown at the girl for a moment, before turning back to his king. All things considered, he seemed to care for the girl. Sandor seemed just as preoccupied with keeping Sansa safe as he was with Lyarra.
"Are you alright, my lady?" Tyrion questioned frantically as he all but dashed to the pair. The honorifics were not lost on Lyarra, though she only waved him off. She had never been more afraid than she was in the moments prior, but the thought of Sansa suffering the same fate made that thought easy to ignore.
"The little bird's bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage," Sandor snapped, the remaining handmaidens moving quickly to their side to pull the girls up. Lyarra was reluctant to move again, but she bit back her pain to stand — pulling Sansa against her.
"Well done, Clegane," Tyrion praised, though Sandor did not so much as blink at the man. Rather, he hadn't once looked away from Lyarra, a level of fear evident in his gaze.
"I didn't do it for you."
.. Heyy. So. Okay. Lets discuss. There was a LOT of Sandor and Lyarra in this chapter. I don't know whether to apologize or not. The burn is burning. I also did include a lot more of Tyrion in this chapter than I had planned, but it all has a purpose alright. I feel like I'm not doing a great job writing her relationship with Sansa, and I apologize if that's the case. I am simultaneously trying to write like 5 different relationships for Lyarra, and it's a bit difficult.
That being said! More Petyr / Lyarra development! What a weird dream.. I really hope that's not foreshadowing at all.. haha. Yeah. Anyways. I do feel the need to say as well, that Sandor & Sansa's relationship is also incredibly important in this. Sandor sees himself in her, and therefore feels obligated to protect her. It's a very complicated relationship. He feels that he failed his family, allowing Gregor to get his hands on them – AND he also feels that he has failed Joffrey. He doesn't want to fail her — or Lyarra — as well. Sansa reminds Sandor of who he was before the burn, when he was still idealistic and hopeful. Anyways! Yap sesh over.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter! And as always, please leave any comments you have below!
"The boar's great tusks, they boded ill for good King Robert's health. And the beast was every bit as fat as Robert was himself. But our brave king cried 'Do your worst! I'll have your ugly head. You're nowhere near as murderous as the lion in my bed.' King Robert lost his battle, and he failed his final test. The lion ripped his balls off and the boar did all the rest."
Slow claps echoed through the room as King Joffrey beamed. Sansa did not do so much as bristle at Lyarra's side, causing her to reach out and grasp her hand. She squeezed once, before turning her gaze back to the scene. Sandor stood just behind the throne, adorned in the armor of a Kingsguard. It was almost unsettling to see him in something other than his normal suit of chain.
"Very amusing! Isn't it a funny song?" Joffrey asked the room, still grinning from ear to ear. He carried on for only a minute longer, before the bard stood to apologize. "Tell me, which do you favor? Your fingers or your tongue?"
Sansa gaped at the question, turning to Lyarra in horror. She only shook her head, squeezing her hand once more — though, whether the action was more comforting to her or Sansa she was not certain.
"Every man needs hands, Your Grace."
"Good! Tongue it is."
Ser Ilyn Payne, the same man who took her brother's head, approached from the shadows then. Sansa moved to turn away, but Lyarra only grasped onto her shoulders — keeping her facing forward. If Joffrey noticed her turning from him, it would likely further enrage him. Instead, the two watched as the bard's tongue was sliced off, thrown into the flames like a piece of kindling. Joffrey stood then, removing his crown and handing it off to Sandor.
Before she could collect herself, he — alongside Sandor and Meryn Trant, made their way to the pair.
"You look quite nice," He stated in greeting, carefully ignoring Lyarra's stare. Sansa, with bloodshot eyes covered by thick bags only nodded.
"Thank you, My Lord."
"Your Grace. I'm King now."
With a sharp glare, Joffrey walked ahead — meeting Lyarra's eyes for only a moment. He bid the pair to follow him. Sandor stopped in front of Sansa, keeping his gaze trained on Lyarra.
"Do as you're bid, child." He snapped, though his voice held no true venom. Sansa shook in Lyarra's arms, as the two followed after him. Joffrey was eerily silent until they reached their destination, a fact that had her pulse jumping each second. Once they'd turned a corner, Lyarra was met with not only blinding sunlight — but the sight of numerous decapitated heads. Instinctually she shot forward — covering her niece's eyes as the girl began to cry.
"Your Grace," Lyarra started, but was silenced just as quickly by a dangerous glare.
"Let her look. Let her see what happens to traitors," He bit, wobbling on his feet when Lyarra made no move to heed his word. She felt someone grip her shoulders harshly, the pain flooding through her at once. She knew instantly that it wasn't Sandor's touch.
"You promised to be merciful," Sansa cried, still buried in her aunt's arms. Ser Meryn pressed his fingers into the blade of her shoulder at that moment, and it took everything in Lyarra to not cry out.
"I was. I gave him a clean death." Joffrey stated, glancing back to his work. Lyarra carefully avoided the sight of her brother, instead training her gaze on the King. He raised his head once more, growing evidently impatient at their lack of cooperation. "I said, let her look."
"Your Grace, please. We won't be any trouble. We won't commit any act of treason. Just let her go home."
"Mother says I'm still to marry her, so she'll stay here and obey. And you," He paused, looking down her figure. "Well, you're too old for a husband, aren't you? A pitiful thing. Maybe you'll be the next head in my collection."
Sansa's head snapped up then as she pushed out of Lyarra's grasp, tears now raining down her cheeks. She wearily obeyed his command, pulling her gaze to the sight of her father's head. Lyarra swallowed before doing the same, Meryn Trant's fingers still pressing into her skin. She did her best not to stumble backwards at the sight, but she did look away just as quickly. Sansa, however, did not once blink — nor tear her gaze away.
"How long do I have to look?" The girl questioned, and Lyarra felt her heart stalling.
"As long as it pleases me." Joffrey almost seemed to gape at her resignation as Sansa once again agreed. He began pointing to the various heads. Septa Mordane, Jory. Every member of their house, one after the other. Lyarra wasn't certain how long the boy trailed on — rather, she couldn't keep her eyes from her niece. Sansa's stare was no longer one of fear, but hate. Lyarra felt herself growing both increasingly concerned — and proud all at once. Sansa was not made for this life. She deserved to be a lady — to dream of better days, to eat lemoncakes with her friends as they discussed Knights. Before this, if there was one person she had not been expecting to acclimate so quickly — it was Sansa.
"I tell you what, I'll give you both a present. After I raise my armies and kill your traitorous family, I'm going to give you each of their heads as well."
"Or maybe they'll give us yours." Sansa retorted, never once pulling her stare from the heads. Lyarra gaped, moving quickly to defend her niece as the King bristled.
"Forgive her, Your Grace, traitor or not — her father was killed before her own eyes. It's not an easy thing to accept," Lyarra attempted, but Joffrey's eyes only grew more vengeful by the minute. He furrowed his brow, stepping backwards to brush his robe.
"My mother tells me a king should never strike his lady. Ser Meryn," At once, he took his hands off of Lyarra — twisting Sansa to him. He struck her before she could do so much as blink, twice across her face until blood was dribbling down her lip. As he moved to settle himself once more, an idea seemed to come to the King's mind. "Her bitch of an aunt, too. Show her what happens when you disgrace a king."
Just as quickly, he was at her side. With two fists to the gut, and one slap across her cheek — Lyarra forced herself to stand upright. Ser Meryn, seemingly content with his work, stepped back to Sandor's side. She found herself carefully avoiding his eye, instead clutching her stomach as she turned back to Sansa. Sansa was approaching the king steadily, and she realized with horror what her niece was intending to do. In only a step, she'd be close enough to push Joffrey to his death. They'd be killed just after the boy fell, but the realm would be safe from Joffrey Baratheon's reign. Before she could get close enough, Sandor dashed forward — twisting Sansa to him as he wiped her lip with a handkerchief.
Sandor Clegane was becoming increasingly gentle with the Stark girls, it seemed. She found warmth struggling to bleed into her heart, as she only clutched tighter to her stomach.
"I do hope you'll obey now. The next time you step out of line, it's her head," Joffrey pointed to Lyarra, nodding with emphasis. She did not do so much as stumble, but never once pulled her eyes from the king. "that you'll see on a spike." He stepped away then, promising to look for Sansa in court. Ser Meryn followed suit, never once looking back at the pair. Sandor glanced at the retreating form of the King before turning back to Lyarra and Sansa.
He reached to take the handkerchief from Sansa's grip in an almost delicate manner, gripping Lyarra's chin in his hands just as he had before. All the while, he never broke her stare — his eyes carrying a message with more weight than she knew how to decipher. He ran the cloth over her lip, and Lyarra had to force herself not to lean into the touch. Sandor had been kind to her the past few days. More than he needed to be. Now was not a good time to think only of that, and not of the fact that he was still Joffrey Baratheon's dog.
He glanced down to the hand clutching her stomach, his gaze carrying a question — but she only waved him off, straightening herself to the best of her ability.
"Save yourself some pain, girl. Give him what he wants." He directed to Sansa, who only blinked. Sandor reached to grab Lyarra's hand, placing the handkerchief in it and closing her fingers around it. He held onto her for only a moment longer before pulling away, following after the king.
Once Lyarra was certain they were alone, she shot forward — pulling Sansa to her. As the girl began to weep in her arms, she placed her chin on the top of her head. It was then, that she properly took in the sight of her brother. Eddard Stark's eyes held none of his usual warmth, nor his knowing mirth. He was pale, empty. His mouth gaping with dried blood coating his cheeks.
All things considered, Lyarra was not certain how much longer she would survive in King's Landing without him at her side.
Each night after that Lyarra either snuck out to Petyr's brothel just after night fell, or she slept in Sansa's chambers. Some nights Aianna would stay up with her, if only to placate her in the slightest. Those nights, Lyarra refused to speak about herself. She only wanted to know more about Aianna. Each time, it was a struggle to get more than a few words out of her. Even still, she was just grateful to have one wholly good person in her life still. More than once she accompanied her to Sansa's chambers, only leaving once the two settled for sleep.
The nights that she spent in the brothel were more often than not consistent of her sitting in Petyr's study while he worked. His presence alone should have been comforting. All her life she longed to be back at his side, and thought as long as she had her closest friend with her — everything would be alright. Only, now, she felt a wave of tension bleed through her at the sight of him. She was waiting for the second shoe to drop, for something to hit her. Something that never seemed to happen.
One of the girls under his employment, Ros, had taken to sitting with her throughout the night. She'd seen the girl before, back in Winterfell. More than once, she had been at Theon's side — though, that was not something altogether surprising. The thought of the Greyjoy boy gave her pause. Lyarra could only wonder where he'd ended up. No doubt, he wouldn't leave Robb's side for anything. The two had been close for years. Closer than brothers.
Ros was witty, and easy to keep up with. Her charms were numerous. Once, Petyr seemed to marvel at the sight of them together — entering the room with, 'Ah, now there are my two favorite girls.' She was gladdened at once to have the girl in King's Landing. At the very least, she had another ally.
Petyr had offered her a room more than once, claiming that she could stay for as long as she liked. One night, when he was escorting her to the room — she could no longer hold back her tears. A dam broke, and at once she was all but sobbing in his embrace. His touch wasn't delicate, but it was caring. She could feel Petyr's love, and yet the lack of warmth was noticeable. She wanted to burrow further into his chest, to become one with him until she could feel him as well as she felt herself. Lyarra felt as if she could understand Petyr better than anyone she'd ever met, and yet she couldn't decipher his feelings for her. Some nights he would stare at her as if she'd hung the stars, as if he couldn't help but marvel at his own love for her. Other nights, she was almost a stranger to him. As if they were nothing more than good friends.
In a way, it was a polarizing difference from what she had come to expect from him. Lyarra had never felt such love for anyone else as she did for him. It was muddled within the word, the true meaning cracking in viridescent flickers. Was it love? Undoubtably. But was it romantic? Therein lied the question. There was a time that she wanted to be Petyr's wife. That if she needed to marry a man, she would will it to be him. Now, the thought of his hands on her made her sick — made her gut twist in discomfort.
Lyarra had no reason to distrust the man. Not after all he had done for her. And yet, something in her told her to think better of his advances. A voice, almost reminiscent of Varys, reminded her that no one was to be trusted. Not even the ones she loved most.
On the morning of King Joffrey's nameday, the sound of horns echoed so fiercely that Lyarra fell right out of her bed. The entire kingdom seemed prepared to celebrate the occasion. She and Sansa were to accompany the royal family to the festivities. Sansa would sit at Joffrey's side, as expected considering she was his bride-to-be, while Lyarra sat only a few feet away to her left. Sandor was the first to take part in the king's jousting tournament — adorned with his hound shaped helm.
As quickly as he raised his weapon, the fight was over. His opponent was thrown over the side of the platform they'd been fighting on, leaving Sandor standing tall — raising a shield with the Clegane sigil.
"Well struck. Well struck, dog!" Joffrey cheered, clapping with glee at the open carnage. Lyarra felt her stomach flip, but she couldn't help the slight wave of relief that bled through her at the victory. She knew better than to doubt him, but it wracked her nerves nonetheless. "Did you like that?" The king questioned, tilting his head in the direction of the fallen corpse. Sansa nodded at once.
"It was well struck, Your Grace."
"I already said it was well struck."
"Yes, Your Grace."
At once, another joust was prepared — the body of the fallen man being dragged away, leaving a trail of blood. Two men were announced, but only one came running out. After a moment of silence stretched through the area, a man came running down the steps — clumsily wobbling on his feet. The king quickly questioned if he was drunk, to which the man — Dontos, replied that he'd only had two cups of wine.
"Two cups? That's not much at all. Please, have another cup."
"Are you sure, Your Grace?"
"Yes. To celebrate my name day. Have two. Have as much as you like."
Ser Dontos seemed to beam at the notion, bowing his head in recognition. Lyarra hardly noticed Sandor approaching to stand at her left, only coming to realize it once he was blocking her direct line of sight.
"Ser Meryn, help Ser Dontos celebrate my name day. See that he drinks his fill."
Meryn Trant stalked over to the man, grabbing him with ease as he lowered him to the ground. Just as quickly Dontos' smile appeared, it vanished. Instead, the man was oozing with terror. They intended to pour wine down his throat, no doubt until he choked on it.
"You can't," Sansa exclaimed, causing Lyarra to curse under her breath.
"What did you say? Did you say I can't?"
"She only meant," Lyarra interrupted, leaning forward to place a hand on Sansa's shoulder — "it would be bad luck to kill a man on your name day."
"What kind of stupid peasant superstition—" Joffrey started, but was quickly cut off by a gruff voice from behind the group.
"She's right. What a man sows on his name day, he reaps all year." Sandor chimed in, nodding in agreement. Lyarra fought against her better judgement to shoot him a grateful smile, instead only meeting his eyes with what she could only hope was a strong enough glance to convey her message.
Joffrey sighed before resigning himself in agreement, waving for the man to be brought to the dungeons. Sansa, however, was not pleased — and continued to argue in Ser Dontos' favor.
"He is a fool, you're so clever to see it. He'll make a much better fool than a knight. He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death." Her words seemed to give the king pause, as he rubbed the tips of his fingers together contemplatively. Anyone could see that the boy was no idiot. He was vindictive, but he thought of his actions before he went through with them.
"Did you hear my lady, Ser Dontos? From this day, you'll be my new fool."
Ser Dontos was carried away by the crook of his elbows then, his feet dragging across the stone. Lyarra sat back with a resounding, but silent sigh. For only a moment she allowed herself to meet Sandor's gaze, the two sharing a message with only their eyes alone. Sansa was becoming increasingly good at wrangling the king's fury into something manageable. With Sandor coming to her aid, there was a chance that they could make it through the lion's den almost unscathed.
"My beloved nephew!" A voice called, and at once Lyarra sat straight — both hope and confusion bleeding through her. Tyrion Lannister came marching through the crowd, adorned with Lannister armor — with a man that Lyarra did not recognize in tow. Half a dozen thoughts flew through her mind at once. The last she saw Tyrion, he was an ally — a friend, even. The two drank their sorrows away together. She defended him to her brother and his wife more than once, just before Lady Catelyn had taken him captive. Not only that, but he was the last man to see her son with his own eyes. His presence would either prove to be a gift from the gods, or yet another blight on her life.
Tyrion took his time greeting each of the members of his family, even going on to say that Joffrey's little brother — Tommen — would grow to be bigger than The Hound, as well as more attractive. Sandor grumbled behind her, causing Tyrion to cackle as he pointed out that Sandor didn't care for him to the man at his side. Once he passed the king, he came to a stop in front of Sansa.
"My lady, I'm sorry for your loss." He bowed his head once, before turning to Lyarra herself. She could hardly control the wild grin that pulled across her lips, one that Tyrion met in equal ferocity. His gaze carried the same solemn weight that they had only moments prior when addressing her niece, but Tyrion seemed almost gladdened at her presence. He moved to grab her hand in his, leaning down to place a kiss on the backside of her palm. Lyarra scoffed at the motion, pulling her hand from his grasp.
"Lyarra Stark," He started, looking over her with a consistent grin. "A lovely sight, as always. I am sorry for your loss as well. Though, I can't say I am not happy to see you." Lyarra moved to retort with a quip, before she was cut off by the king's venom.
"Her loss? Her brother," He argued, pointing then to Sansa, "her father was a confessed traitor!"
"But still family. Surely having so recently lost your own beloved father, you can sympathize," Tyrion hissed, leaning back to look down at his nephew scornfully. Joffrey turned expectantly to Sansa, before she blinked in understanding. He expected her to argue, to disgrace her own father. Lyarra had only just opened her mouth to intervene, before the girl spoke up.
"My father was a traitor. My mother and brother were traitors, too. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey," Sansa claimed, her voice never once wavering. Joffrey turned then to Lyarra, seemingly expecting the same from her, before Tyrion chimed in once more.
"Of course you are. I see the point. Enjoy your name day, Your Grace. I wish I could stay and celebrate, but there is work to be done."
With that, Tyrion shot one more amused look in Lyarra's direction, before marching off towards the keep, the same unknown man at his side.
"What work?" The king called, his voice reminiscent of a petulant child, "Why are you here?"
Another fit of sobs wracked through Ros, as Lyarra leaned to bring the girl to her chest. Only nights prior, the city watch ransacked the town — killing children, infants, everyone they deemed fit. Rumors spiraled that they were hunting the 'supposed bastards' of Robert Baratheon. A rumor that was admittedly confirmed in Lyarra's eyes once they'd slain the same babe that she swore she'd protect. Ros wasn't handling her grief well, a fact that she couldn't blame her for. Had she seen the babe slain before her own eyes, she would be in shambles as well.
Petyr eventually stalked into the room, sitting at their side as gently as he could manage. Ros pulled away from Lyarra's embrace, sniffling as she rubbed her eyes to meet his stare.
"I'm sorry, my lord," She whispered, pulling her knees up. Lyarra rubbed her back soothingly, before thinking at once that she shouldn't be present for their conversation. As she moved to stand, Ros clutched her wrist — her gaze almost pleading. After a moment of observing their interaction, Petyr began to question the girl — in a tone that almost bordered on caring.
"It's Mhaegen," She admitted, giving the man pause. The fact that he was unsure of the names of the women under his employment was not surprising, but it had her gut churning all the same. "She works for you. The gold cloaks, they killed her baby."
"Ah, yes. That was poorly handled. Sometimes those with the most power have the least grace."
Ros took a breath, before bursting into another fit of tears. Lyarra reached out at once to lean the girl's head against her body, brushing her hand through her strings of red hair.
"I can't stop thinking about it. I can't sleep. That poor little baby."
"You know, you remind me of another girl," Petyr started, as he leaned his head against her shoulder. The touch alone caused Lyarra's nerves to spike. "A lovely thing I once acquired from a Lysene pleasure house. Beautiful, like yourself. And intelligent, like yourself. But she wasn't happy. She cried often. I asked her why but we didn't have the kind of rapport that you and I have. Yes, it was quite sad. Girls from the Lysene pleasure houses are expensive. Extremely expensive. And this one wasn't making me any money. I hate bad investments. Really, I do. They haunt me. And I had no idea how to make her happy. And no idea how to mitigate my losses. A very wealthy patron, he offered me a tremendous amount of money to let him transform this lovely sad girl, to use her in ways that would never occur to most men. And you know what occurs to most men. I would not say he succeeded in making her happy, but my losses were definitely mitigated."
Petyr pulled back, standing to move in front of Ros' direct line of sight. All the while, he avoided Lyarra's dangerous glare. "Take tonight off to mourn Mhaegen's child. Get a drink with Lyarra. Collect yourself. I'll see you tomorrow. And you'll be happy?"
Ros nodded at once, a sickening smile curling from her lips. Her eyes held no warmth, no semblance of peace. Petyr left only a moment after, taking careful precision to not meet Lyarra's stare even once. None of it had been overly surprising, by any means. She was becoming increasingly aware of what Petyr Baelish was capable of. That he was no longer the boy she knew. Ros sniffled once, before collapsing into Lyarra's side. The two sat together until the sun began to peek over the city, and even then she only brushed the girl's hair back with a soft touch. It would seem that nothing was certain in King's Landing.
"The King himself made me a lord!"
Lannister guards tugged a screaming man out of the room by his arms, brushing past Lyarra with not so much as a sideways glance. She paused for only a moment, taking in the sight with a titled head before a voice called for her.
"Ah, Lady Lyarra! Do come in, please." Tyrion exclaimed, raising a cup of wine in her direction. She casted another longing glance in the direction of her quarters, which were only just out of sight, before resigning herself to entering the room. At Tyrion's side sat the same man from before, with a hairline receding back to the tip of his head. Even still, she couldn't deny that there was something charming about the way his eyes twinkled in regard.
"We," Tyrion started, tilting his head in the direction of the man, "are drinking to the new commander of the City Watch. Come, join us." Lyarra nodded at once, pulling back one of the wooden chairs with ease. A small, almost pudgy man with raven black hair half-sprinted to her side, quickly pouring her another cup of wine. She raised her cup in celebration, before pausing in thought.
"Ah, of course," Tyrion stated, standing in his seat, "Lady Lyarra Stark, meet Bronn." She raised her brow imploringly, to which the man only smiled. He was just Bronn, then. Simple enough. "Bronn, the Lady Lyarra Stark."
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady." Bronn bowed in the slightest, before turning his direction to Tyrion. It was almost comforting to not be fawned over for once. To be addressed as she was, and not as some pitiful damsel.
Tyrion's presence had been a gift from the gods, she came to think. For once, the hours of the night flew by in a wave. Laughter bubbled from her throat with ease, with wine quick to meet it. Not once did they mention her family — her brother, none of them. Guilt threatened to flood through her at the thought that she was grateful for such a thing, but she swallowed it down all the same.
"How is it, that a man from nowhere — with no titles, no high standing, comes to be commander of the City Watch?" She questioned after another fit of giggles passed through her. Bronn paused, seemingly in thought himself.
"Must just be my luck," He shrugged, scowling as Tyrion snorted at his response.
"I've paid him well," Tyrion added as an explanation, swirling his cup in his hand, "I told him once that I'd pay him double what any other man would, and he listened. He's been my loyal protector since. And, as you well know, a Lannister always pays his debts."
"There's not a lot a man won't do for a bit of coin," Bronn stated, causing Lyarra to sit back in thought. Tyrion titled his head, taking in the words with the same level of confusion.
"You do know that makes you sound like a whore, don't you?"
"For the right price, I'd drop to my knees right here and now."
The remainder of the night passed before Lyarra could properly realize. Tyrion bid her farewell, asking that Bronn accompany her to her chambers. For a moment she attempted to wave him off, claiming that she could get there just fine on her own — before the wobble of her step became more pronounced. She scowled at once, as the man took her arm to guide her. He was uncharacteristically quiet for most of the trip, only sharing a few mocking quips each time she stumbled.
Just as she moved to enter her room, she took notice of the shadow in the corner of the hall once again. Only this time, the sight didn't feel foreboding. Almost comforting, rather. Sandor was always there, whether she willed him to be or no. That night, she wasn't haunted by the thought of him standing before her. Instead, warmth blossomed through her. She almost felt safe, for once.
Well. Hey guys. I feel like nothing major really happened here, but sometimes that's just life. We finally got to Tyrion's big role in the fic. This all honestly started because I wanted to write a character into Tyrion, Pod, and Bronn's little friend group. They're so obnoxious I want in.
But, we did get some pretty big developments in Petyr and Lyarra's relationship. She's growing increasingly confused as to where she should stand with him. What are his true motives, what does he want? Ros is definitely going to play a big role in all of this, just saying.
As always if you have any thoughts, feel free to comment below. And I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
For what felt like weeks, Lyarra was not allowed to leave her chambers to do more than wander through the gardens. Sansa, to the best of her knowledge, was being kept from her — a fact that came as no surprise. They were the only Starks left free in King's Landing, it was only logical to keep them from one another.
Aianna was more often than not at her side, every minute of the day. The two ate together, after Lyarra's insistent pleading — they walked together, drank together. Aianna's presence in her life was becoming so familiar that for a moment, the cavity within her didn't feel so wide. The two were wandering through the gardens, when a regal voice called out behind them.
"Lady Lyarra," The voice chimed, a wave of tension flooding through the area at once. Lyarra spun in a flash, brushing her gown in an attempt to collect herself.
"Your grace," Lyarra started, taking in the fear that came with Cersei Lannister's presence. Cersei seemed to rise at the term, sweeping elegantly through the area to come to her side. In this light, she could almost see Jaime's face staring back at her. Identical was an understatement. However, Lyarra had never seen such malice in his eyes — as she saw in the queen regent's at that moment. All the while, Cersei's smile never once slipped from her face.
"My apologies for disturbing you," Cersei amended, though her tone held no true remorse. Lyarra watched as her gaze caught on Aianna, questioning — as if she didn't understand why the girl was still there. Aianna nodded at once, grasping the bottom of her dress in hand as she stepped out. "I was wondering if you might spare me a moment of your time."
Lyarra knew full well that she had no choice in the matter regardless, but she nodded all the same. Cersei stepped lightly to her side, taking a seat on a bench facing the water. The two were silent for only a beat, before she took note of the queen's imploring stare.
"You have a lovely family. Sansa, the little dove — she's perfect. And your sister-by-law? Lady Stark," Cersei paused, snapping her fingers to summon one of her handmaidens — who all but sprinted to her side, carrying a goblet and a pitcher of wine. The queen regent took one swig, before barring her teeth at Lyarra once more. "She's beautiful. Quite a kind woman, wouldn't you say? I'd hate to bring her more sorrow, in these troubling times."
"Aye, your grace. As would I," Her response only seemed to further amuse Cersei, who leaned forward in her seat — all but pushing herself into Lyarra's space.
"Then tell your brother to confess. Joffrey will name him a traitor to the realm, and have him sent to the wall. Don't let him be a fool."
"If only it were that easy," Lyarra breathed, straightening herself at once — when Cersei's eyes narrowed.
"And why wouldn't it be?"
"Forgive me, your grace. I meant nothing by it. I thank you for your mercy," She nodded, voice shaking as she bent her head low. For a moment, Cersei didn't move — seemingly taking in her anxious state. With a tut, she swept her gown to the side — standing in one quick motion. Just before she made it out of the gardens, she paused — turning back to Lyarra contemplatively.
"Oh, I almost forgot. A word of advice? It appears you've made a friend in Lord Baelish," She started, and at once Lyarra paused. "He's a fickle man, and easy enough to break — but a powerful ally. Don't let him go to waste."
A sharp rap at the door broke Lyarra from her fit of restless sleep. She rubbed blearily at her eyes, trudging to the wooden frame. She paused for only a moment, thinking over who could be at her door at this time of night. It wouldn't be Sandor. After he all but delivered her to her chambers, pulling her niece out of sight — Lyarra was certain she wouldn't see the man again soon. She pulled open the door, taking in the man before her. Varys stood only a foot in front of her, his face covered by a hood — coated by the looming shadow of the halls. He made no indication that he intended to speak, and only stepped away — all but silently guiding her somewhere.
Lyarra stepped back only to locate her furs, pulling them tight around herself as she followed after the man. It was only when the pair began descending down a narrow set of stone steps, that she came to realize where he was guiding her. Down to the dungeons. Her heartbeat rose in terror, her pulse jumping in spikes. Varys was a friend of the crown, an ally to the Lannisters — he could very well be guiding her to her new place of stay. Varys, then, gently eased open the metal gate leading to the cells.
She stepped into the shadows, her gaze narrowing in on the dark figure before her. Before she could control herself, Lyarra dashed to her brother's side — picking his head up in one quick motion to look over him. Eddard grunted at her, but moved just as desperately. He flinched at the light of Varys' torch, raising a hand above his face.
"Eddard— Ned," She started, still running her hands down his face.
"Lord Stark, you must be thirsty." Varys interrupted, raising a wineskin to Ned's face. Her brother raised a brow, taking in both of their presences with equal confusion.
"Varys?" He questioned, looking over the man. "Why would you bring her here, where someone could see you? If she's found—"
"She won't be, I assure you. I have little birds watching our every move. I thought it would do you good to be with family, in these trying times." Varys explained, still holding the skin to Eddard. "I promise you, it isn't poisoned."
Lyarra reached over to take the skin from Varys' hands, taking a swig before she could think better of it.
"Why is it no one ever trusts the eunuch?"
Warily, Ned took it from her hands — gulping down what he could. In an instant, Varys rushed forward — his hand hovering over the skin in trepidation.
"Not so much, my lord. I would save the rest, if I were you. Hide it. Men have been known to die of thirst in these cells." Lyarra shot Varys a sharp glare at his words, causing him to only raise a brow in response.
"What of my daughters? Sansa? And Arya?" Eddard inquired, his voice shaking in hesitation. Lyarra reached to grasp his hand, squeezing it in an attempt to placate the man.
"Arya seems to have escaped the castle," She started, only squeezing stronger as Ned all but shot out of his spot against the wall. "Ned, trust me, I will do everything in my power to find her — but she's safer the further away she is."
"And Sansa?" He questioned, nodding as he took in her words.
"Still engaged to Joffrey," Varys answered, "Cersei will keep her close. The rest of your household, though, all dead, it grieves me to say. I do so hate the sight of blood."
Eddard took another swig, leaning to rest his head against the stone behind him. Lyarra, still bent at his side, curled her legs underneath her — dirtying her robe in the process.
"Do you see now, brother, what I was telling you? This is a game to them. You shouldn't have shown them your hand."
"What madness led you to tell the queen you had learned the truth about Joffrey's birth?" Varys agreed, 'tsking' as Ned all but grumbled at the inquiry.
"The madness of mercy. That she might save her children."
"Ah, the children." Varys started, and for a moment Lyarra was struck by the thought of her own children. Jeyne was safe in Winterfell — something she was more than grateful for. Jon, however, was with the watch. Safer than she was, but she could only wonder how he was faring. "It is always the innocents who suffer. It wasn't the wine that killed Robert, nor the boar. The wine slowed him down and the boar ripped him open, but it was your mercy that killed the king."
Lyarra winced as Varys continued, running a comforting hand along her brother's arm. Ned furrowed his brow, grief flooding into his gaze in waves. She was overcome with sympathy, in that moment. Eddard loved the king, as one loves a brother. The thought that he caused his death likely filled him with nothing but sorrow.
"I'll give you both a moment alone, after this. But I must say, you do know that you are a dead man, Lord Eddard?" Lyarra bristled at the question, but Varys only waved off her concern — eyes narrowing defiantly.
"The queen can't kill me. Cat holds her brother."
"The wrong brother, sadly. And lost to her. Your wife has let the imp slip through her fingers."
Lyarra observed as her brother paused in thought. Each safety net was lost to him. He had nothing keeping him alive, keeping him safe from the wrath of Cersei Lannister.
"If that's true.." Ned started, avoiding her stare with purpose, "then slit my throat and be done with it."
Varys only shook his head, glancing to Lyarra with a narrowed stare. She knew well enough the two had little time. That these could be the last moments she spends with her brother, if fate proved to be favorable to the Lannisters.
"Ned, if you are given the chance — appeal to the queen. Appeal to Joffrey, if you must. Do anything that you can. He will have you sent to the wall. You'll live out the rest of your days as a traitor, but you'll be alive all the same."
"Do you truly think that my life is some precious thing to me?"
"Think of your daughters, then. How will Sansa fare in the capital, knowing she's dining with your killers? Or Arya, lost – and afraid? And what of your sons? You'd condemn them to the same fate that we suffered? Life without a father?"
Ned paused at once, furiously pulling off the cap of the skin to take another swig. After a moment, a sharp thud echoed through the room. They were out of time. Varys swept back into the room, torch in hand — his stare wary. Lyarra lunged forward, pulling her brother into her arms. Eddard leaned into her touch to the best of his ability.
The thought of living without her brother filled her with fear that she hadn't felt in years. The hole that he'd leave in her heart would be insurmountable, forever left gaping. She wished, only then, that Lyanna would be there waiting for him — if he did not manage to make it out of this. She gave him one last lingering kiss on his forehead, before standing to make her leave.
Just before she could follow after Varys, a hand reached out — grasping onto her wrist.
"Lyarra, Lord Baelish—" He started, but was quickly cut off by Varys' pointed tone.
"Forgive me, Lord Stark, but if you do not wish for your sister to be caught and thrown in here alongside you — we must make our leave."
Eddard swallowed, brow furrowed once more. He waved her off, and before she could allow herself to fall back to his side — Lyarra marched forward, following the light of Varys' flame. Just before they had returned to her chambers, Varys took a sharp turn — leading her into the corner of the hall.
"If you didn't listen before, I do hope you'll listen now. You have friends in King's Landing. More than you know. But the ones you have chosen to put your trust in, wish to see the collapse of your family from within. Trust no one. Not even your closest allies."
With that, Varys swept away — leaving Lyarra to wobble in his wake. There was no doubt in her mind that he had been referring to Sandor. If it wasn't known that the two knew one another more than they should, it was made glaringly obvious at the tourney. Only, a thought lingered in the back of her mind. If he wasn't thinking of Sandor, who, then, could he have been referring to?
That night, Lyarra told Aianna she was resting early, and only once the girl crept out of the room — did she peel her furs off of herself, silently dressing herself. Sneaking through the keep was harder now that Lannister guards littered the hall, but she toed through the shadows all the same. It was only when the familiar walls of the brothel came into view, that Lyarra allowed herself a moment to breathe.
As she entered the building, she pulled her hood back warily. Petyr, unsurprisingly, was sitting at his desk — pooling over a pile of papers. His head snapped up at the sight of her, but he didn't look entirely surprised. Instead, he waved her over — gesturing for her to take a seat at his side.
"I'm surprised you managed to make your way out of the keep unscathed." He remarked, his lip curling into a grin. She only shrugged, reaching across his desk to pour herself a mug of wine.
"I'm certain if the queen wanted me locked away, I wouldn't have made it out." She answered, leaning back as the chair creaked beneath her. Petyr hummed, flicking his quill as he wrote.
"Petyr," She called. He did not do so much as raise a brow, but his quill did stop in its movements. "What happened? I thought the city watch would come to Ned's aid."
"Your brother works hard, my lady. I'm afraid the Lannisters simply work harder."
Lyarra nodded, resigning herself to the knowledge that she wasn't going to get anything else out of the man. In an instant, Petyr went back to his movements — leaning into the page. The two sat in silence for what felt like hours, before he finally placed the pen down — turning to Lyarra with purpose.
"I take it you've come to trust my word regarding Clegane?" Petyr inquired, shifting in his seat to face her properly. Lyarra felt her throat close, her blood rushing through her. She'd avoided thinking of the man, to the best of her ability. She didn't search for him in the halls, nor let her mind wander. Lyarra only shrugged once more, taking another swig of wine. Petyr, however, seemed delighted at her response. "The Hound would be a formidable ally, I admit. But he is not a man to be trusted."
"Then, who is?"
"My dear Lyarra," He admonished, reaching to clasp her chin in his hands. At once, her gut plummeted — heat rising from his touch. Petyr ran his thumb across her cheek, pressing in slightly to create pressure against her. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing, growing quicker within the second. "You know well enough that we can only trust one another. We're alone in this, as it should be. As it was meant to be."
"Can you imagine what the younger versions of ourselves would think? The young ward of Hoster Tully — and Lyanna Stark's twin sister." She held in her flinch at the mention of her sister, instead choosing to nod resolutely with his words.
"I always wanted this for you," Lyarra all but whispered, her fist clenching in her lap. Petyr seemed to pause, his eyes widening. Just as quickly, he collected himself, straightening his collar.
He stood then, pushing in his chair delicately as he presented a hand to her. She took it after a moment of hesitation, raising at his side. He guided her back to the keep shortly after, this time making no effort to linger in the shadows. None of the guards seemed surprised by her presence, and rather only shot her a flit of a glare — before allowing her to push past. Once they reached her door, Petyr paused — leaning forward to place a kiss at the top of her brow. Lyarra felt herself freeze, her breath shallow.
Just as quickly as he'd appeared, Petyr was gone — leaving only the sound of his robe flapping in his wake. As Lyarra reached to open the door, she noticed a large shadow — a figure standing guard, coated by the lack of light in the hall. She only needed a second longer to discover who the figure was. There, Sandor Clegane stood — his gauntlet clenching the hilt of his blade. Lyarra swallowed harshly, before quickly entering her room — all but slamming the wooden door shut behind her.
As expected, sleep evaded her that night. Each time her eyes shut even in the slightest, she was met with the sight of Sandor — standing in the shadows, just as he had been.
The Great Sept of Baelor was a formidable sight, a large enough creation to make one feel dwarfed in comparison. For the first time in days, Lyarra was at her niece's side. When she'd first caught her eye, she had to wrangle the urge to dash to her. Instead, she only stepped in her direction — clutching her hand in hers as the king approached.
The trial of Eddard Stark was soon to come, and Lyarra felt her heart plummeting by the second. Arya was nowhere to be found, a fact that only filled her with further horror. Lyarra cursed herself for not knowing the true extent of the death of her own father. And yet, she was grateful she didn't have to take the sight in herself.
At their side stood the queen, who had her hair styled in a way similar to Sansa's, a fact that was likely intentional. Joffrey, who stood on their left — was adorned with a golden gown, with red stripes. Sandor was hardly noticeable among the group, and yet her eyes lingered on him all the same.
The crowd jeered as Eddard was dragged out of the dungeons, shoved to stand before the king. Sansa trembled at her side, causing Lyarra to reach forward to rest a hand on her arm. Petyr, who stood on the step just below the pair, shot them both an almost-sympathetic glance.
"I am Eddard Stark," He started. At once, Lyarra felt her gut twist into a pit of terror. "Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King."
Ned shot a quick glance to both Lyarra and Sansa. Sansa nodded back, a tentative smile coating her lips. She believed Eddard would be released, that all would be well. Lyarra could only wish she was as hopeful as her niece.
"I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of Gods and men. I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children but before his blood was cold, I plotted to murder his son — and seize the throne for myself."
Lyarra swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat as he continued. The thought of her brother disgracing himself, convincing the word that he was a traitor — that he would ever betray the man he viewed as a brother — it made her sick. Eddard fell back as a rock hit his temple, thrown by a member of the crowd. At once, Lyarra dashed forwards instinctively — but was quickly grabbed by her wrist. Petyr shot her a sharp look, nodding towards the guards who had their stare trained on her. Ned met her eyes, shaking his head as subtly as he could manage. Sandor quickly shoved him back into place, catching her gaze for only a moment.
"Let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say. Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the iron throne, by the grace of all the gods — Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
The Grand Maester, Pycelle, stepped forward then, raising a hand to placate the jeers of the crowd.
"As we sin, so do we suffer. This man has confessed his crimes in sight of Gods and men. The Gods are just, but beloved Baelor taught us they can also be merciful." Pycelle paused, turning to Joffrey with a shaking step. All the while, Sandor seemed to have stepped closer — now standing just behind the king. "What is to be done with this traitor, Your Grace?"
"My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night's Watch," Joffrey began, raising a hand to wave to the crowd. "Stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And my lady Sansa, has begged mercy for her father."
At once, the crowd went silent. Sansa shot the boy a soft smile, one filled with hope. With each coming moment, Lyarra felt dread building within her. Reluctantly, Petyr met her gaze. She knew, at once, what was to come. Petyr did not appear fearful, nor altogether hopeful. He knew, just as she did — that the king was not in the business of sparing mercy.
"But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!"
Lyarra could hardly hear anything outside of the sound of her own heartbeat. Distantly, she could just make out Sansa's cries — echoing louder than the sound of the queen pleading with her son. Petyr grasped onto her hand in an attempt to pull her back, but she only wobbled in her step. Eddard reared back, and what Lyarra found in his eyes filled her with overflowing horror. Eddard was scared, terrified. She'd never seen such emotion in his gaze. For the first time, he wasn't there to comfort her — he couldn't be. He couldn't help her through this, but she could help him. As Ser Ilyn unsheathed his blade, Lyarra wrenched herself out of Petyr's grasp — dashing forward to her brother's side. If only she could reach him, she could push him out of harm's way. He could run, maybe. She could take the blade for herself, fight each of them off.
Just before she was at his side, she was pulled back once more — this time with a harsher yank, though not an unfamiliar touch. Sandor had her arms in his grasp, making quick work of spinning her to face him. In the chaos of the moment, no one would notice them. No one would take note of the gentle way Sandor Clegane leaned down, grasping her face in his hands so that she would meet his eyes — and not the empty stare of her brother. So that she would focus on the sound of his breathing, and not the blade meeting Eddard's neck. No one beyond Petyr, that is.
Lyarra buried her face into the chain of Sandor's armor, clinging onto it in an attempt to hold herself up. Screams tore their way out of her lips, muffled only in the slightest. She couldn't live without her brother, not anymore. Losing Brandon was a pain like nothing she'd felt before. Lyanna's death felt as if she'd lost a part of herself, forever empty. But Eddard? Lyarra wasn't certain there was much left to lose. Eddard had been her rock — the one wholly good person she had ever met. A man with honor bleeding down to his core. Her love for him was overflowing, all encompassing — and now, it felt as if the light inside her had been extinguished.
"Don't look, Little Wolf. Don't look," Sandor grunted, pulling her closer to his chest. Only a moment after, he pulled away — gently pushing her to Petyr's side. She realized, then, that his words had been an apology of sorts. He couldn't coddle her any longer, but knew better than to move from her line of sight. Sandor, at once, turned on his heel to his king — who commanded he bring Sansa to her chambers.
Lyarra did her best to take heed of his words, carefully avoiding the now lifeless, headless body of her brother. Instead, she glanced over her niece — who was staring at her pleadingly. Sansa needed her, she realized. She hadn't looked away, she'd seen her father slaughtered before her very eyes. She, just as Lyarra had been, would be raised without a father. Only, she had no other family to protect her — she was far from home, trapped in the Lion's den.
Lyarra swore to herself in that moment that she would not let the Lannisters get their claws on Sansa Stark. She would protect her niece by any means, even at the cost of her own life. Petyr attempted to point her in his direction, but she only stared after the girl as they pulled her away — her heart steeling itself in resignation.
So. Then that happened. This was one of the shorter chapters I'd say, but a lot did happen in it. Lyarra and Sandor are not on the best of terms, but he still shows that he cares for her. Crazy right ...
And what could Varys have meant?? Was that what Ned was going to warn her about?? This is getting intense guys I need a drink.
I don't have much else to say about this chapter tbh. I had to rally myself to complete it. I'm going through a lot outside of this at the moment, so finding the motivation to write has been troublesome. I do have big plans for this fic, though. And I will 100% complete it.
So, here is a bit of an explanation of the plotline of the other characters for a moment. Jon will be following the show plotline, same as Daenerys — with the exception that they share dreams with one another. They meet each other in a dream state more than once (which is alluded to in the previous chapters). So that is something to bear in mind!
On top of that, Reyne will be with Bran and Rickon for multiple chapters. When something happens in her plotline that changes, I will leave a note down here to let you all know. I think only a few chapters will have different POVs, and they will be few and far between.
Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed! As always, feel free to leave a comment blow.
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When Eddard finally came to, Lyarra had been seated just to his left — with the king and queen on her opposite. The two had arrived only moments prior, both barging in without more than a rushed welcome. Robert had brushed past her, stomping to Ned's side. Cersei, however, hang back — glancing over Lyarra. A moment of silence stretched between them, as she shrunk under the Queen's inquisitive gaze. After another beat, she moved to her husband's side — seemingly content with what she had found in Lyarra's eyes.
Lyarra rushed to inform the pair that Eddard had yet to wake, but was silenced as the man began to stir. She couldn't help but curse him in that moment. Of course, he couldn't wake up when it was just the two of them alone. When he could have a moment to breathe, to take in his surroundings. Damn her brother and his honor, she thought.
They came to question Eddard about Tyrion, which came as no surprise to her. Cersei's tone was spiteful, her stare carrying an immeasurable amount of disdain. Robert, however — only stood at her side — his expression dark, save for the disinterest coating his gaze. Lyarra reached out to clutch her brother's hand as the three continued arguing amongst themselves, drawing the stare of the Queen once more.
"Oh, will both of you shut your mouths?" Robert snapped, as Eddard defended his wife. Lyarra bristled at the sudden sound. "Catelyn will release Tyrion, and you will make your peace with Jaime."
"He butchered my men. He would have done it in front of my sister, had she not been pulled away." Ned argued, squeezing her hand then. Lyarra held back her flinch, as all eyes drew to her in that moment. Cersei narrowed her eyes, a sardonic smile overtaking her.
"Lord Stark and Lady Lyarra were returning drunk from a brothel when his men attacked Jaime." Cersei stated, her stare never once pulling from Lyarra. In return, she found herself standing taller — moving to speak again, before she was interrupted by the King.
"Quiet, woman!" Robert snapped, causing Cersei's pointed glare to flit to him.
"Jaime has fled the city. Give me leave to bring him back to justice."
"I took you for a King," Cersei bit after a moment of silence, "I should wear the armor — and you, the gown."
The sound of the slap took Lyarra's breath from her momentarily. Robert shook his hand, all the while glaring at Cersei. Eddard had not moved an inch, but she felt him tense in her hand. He squeezed back once more, pulling away — moving to sit up with a grunt. When Cersei rose, her stare was almost murderous. She did not shrink under him, but seemed to grow in power. She left only a moment after, slamming the door behind her as she went.
Lyarra thought of going after her, of looking over the wound. There had always been a level of tension between the two, but her pity for the woman overtook that — in that moment. As if predicting her thoughts, Eddard took hold of her hand once more — tugging her back to his side. He and Robert continued their conversation soon after, leaving Lyarra to clean up after her brother — wiping his forehead with a rag.
"I can't rule the Kingdoms if the Starks and the Lannisters are at each other's throats. So, enough." Robert bit, letting out a harsh shy as he rambled on. He paused, turning his sharp gaze to Lyarra. "Will you get that through your half-wit brother's thick skull? If he won't listen to me, I can only hope you can get through to him."
Lyarra let out a rasp of a laugh, wiping the rag across Eddard's forehead once more, while brushing away the few damp strands of hair that stuck to him.
"You know as well as I do, your Grace, he'll never listen to a word I say." Eddard sighed, as the two continued to speak about him as if he weren't there. "He's a wolf. And a stubborn one, at that." Robert let out another harrumph, taking a long swig of ale. Lyarra couldn't stand the man before her, nor had she ever been able to. But in that moment, the two had a connection stronger than she would have liked. They were both driven by love for her brother.
"Your Grace, with your leave, I will return to Winterfell and set the matters straight." Ned cut in, eyes rolling as the two came down from their fit of laughter.
"Piss on that!" Robert snapped, all hint of amusement fading from him at once, "Send a raven. I want you to stay. Both of you. I'm the king, I get what I want."
Silence stretched between the group, as the pair stared after the king. Robert took another swig of ale, before placing the mug down harshly on the table before him.
"I never loved my brothers. A sad thing for a man to admit, but it's true. You were the brother I chose." Robert stood then, wobbling in the slightest as he forced himself to his feet. "And you," He continued, glancing over to Lyarra, "I never knew you as well as I would have liked to. But I loved your sister, and for that — you're as good as family, to me."
"One more thing," He started, holding the door open by his foot — "I don't want you leaving the Keep again," Robert narrowing his eyes in the direction of Lyarra, so she knew he could only be speaking to her. "After this whole mess, it's just not safe for you. I'll have my son's dog, Clegane, watch over you. He's a big ugly devil, but he'll get the job done."
"We'll talk when I return from the hunt," Robert claimed, tossing a pin — which Lyarra came to realize symbolized the hand of the king — as he opened the door properly.
"The hunt?" She questioned, chiming in as she thought over the absence of the king.
"Killing things clears my head." He added as an explanation. "You'll have to sit on the throne while I'm away," Eddard tensed at the thought, gaping after the man. "You'll hate it more than I do."
"Pin on the badge. If you take it off again, I swear to the Mother, I'll pin the damned thing on Jaime Lannister." The siblings blanched at the thought, and with that the king slammed the door. They looked over one another for a moment longer, before Eddard moved to stand — asking for Lyarra's assistance with a pleading stare alone. Once the man was dressed, Lyarra straightened his leather — brushing his hair back. Ned stared after the pin on the bed, and with a sigh she moved to fasten it against him. The sight had her stomach curling into a pit, one that could not even be settled by the reassuring grin of her brother.
True to his word, since the king's leave, Sandor had not once left her side. He trailed after her, more often than not. The first few days of his company, the two had not spoken to one another more than what was necessary. Since he'd stood guard in Eddard's room, nights prior, she hadn't seen him again. Once more, he'd promised to look over her — to protect her. The thought had her swirling in doubt, after the events of the past few weeks. Some nights he would stand guard outside her quarters, his presence made noticeable only by the distant shuffle of chainmail by the door. Other nights, she would coax him into coming in — pouring them both a drink.
Alternatively, Petyr had not come to visit her once, not even to look over her condition. She'd only heard his voice through the halls, no doubt finding himself in another argument with Ned. The thought of him made Lyarra's hands shake, her stomach curling itself into a pit of discomfort. He'd comforted her in her time of need — but that fact didn't erase his previous venom.
For the most part, Lyarra spent her evenings with her nieces. Aianna, more often than not, would come in only to clean up after the group — and yet each time Lyarra viewed her presence as an opportunity. She quickly introduced her to the girls, describing her as both her handmaiden and her friend. Arya seemed more interested than Sansa did, quickly jumping into a list of questions for the girl. After a while, her presence at Lyarra's side came as less of a surprise to her nieces — and in time Aianna was expected to be wherever she went as well.
Sandor, however, did not make such a mark. Arya never once peeled her eyes from him, shooting daggers through the man. Sandor, to his credit, never recoiled from her fury — but only seemed perplexed, if not amused by it.
Lyarra had been in Sansa's quarters when the pair were summoned to Ned's study, Arya following behind — with Sandor in tow. At once, she shuffled the girls in front of her — placing herself at Sandor's side. Eddard looked up once the group entered, his stare lingering on the foreboding figure behind his family. Sandor, at once, turned on his heel and exited the room. The air seemed to shift at his disappearance, as Eddard took a breath of almost relief.
"I'm sending you three back to Winterfell," He stated, leaning forward on a chair. Sansa quickly was up in arms — while the pair beside her sat silent. Lyarra longed to return home, more than anything. It was all that she'd been dreaming of since she arrived. And yet underneath that thought, lied a pit of regret — something that she did not allow herself to unfurl.
"What?" Sansa demanded, eyes wide in shock. "What about Joffrey?"
"Are you dying because of your leg?" Arya cut in, "Is that why you're sending us home?"
Lyarra snapped at the girl, pushing her shoulder in aggravation. Arya shrunk in on herself for a moment, seemingly allowing her own words to catch up with her. The girls continued to argue with their father, his frustration building evidently as time stretched on. All the while, Lyarra willed herself to speak — to come to his aid, to claim that it was for the best. And yet, nothing came.
"When you're old enough, I'll make you a match with someone who's worthy of you," Ned claimed. Lyarra reached out then to rub Sansa's shoulder, knowing his words to be true. Anyone could see that Joffrey was a cruel child, one who had no care of Sansa's well being. "Someone who's brave, and gentle, and strong."
"I don't want someone brave, and gentle, and strong. I want him! He'll be the greatest king that ever was. A golden lion. And I'll give him sons with beautiful blond hair." The moment that the words were bit out, Lyarra could feel a pin drop. Eddard met her eyes in an instant, a horrifying flicker of understanding peeking through them. She swallowed her words, tension building within her.
"The lion's not his sigil, you idiot. He's a stag, like his father."
"He is not! He's nothing like that old drunk king."
Eddard paused for a moment longer, battling with his inner thoughts. At once, he nodded his head towards the door — signaling for Lyarra to open it. Sandor had seemingly not moved an inch, standing exactly where she'd left him — with an expectant look in his eyes.
"Go on, girls. Get your Septa, and start packing your things. Jory, Clegane — go with them. Don't let them out of your sight until you're certain they're in their chambers." Sansa continued to argue as she was all pulled out of the room by her sister, causing Lyarra's heart to pang in sympathy. All she wanted was for the girl to find happiness, to find peace. She willed herself to trust that Sansa would forgive the pair in due time. Sandor lingered for a moment longer, awaiting Lyarra's command. She realized at once, that he would not take Eddard's word into account. He was there to protect her, not Lord Stark. She nodded quickly, and within a beat he disappeared after the girls.
Eddard spun back to his desk, pulling open a rather large book. Lyarra shut the door behind her, moving hastily to his side. 'The Lineage and Histories of The Great Houses of The Seven Kingdoms,' the front page read. Ned met her eye, trepidation flooding through him. If they discovered what they both thought to be true, it would uncover something that neither were prepared for. After a moment, he flipped to the page reading 'Baratheon'.
"Lord Orys Baratheon, black of hair. Axel Baratheon, black of hair. Lyonel Baratheon, black of hair. Steffon Baratheon, black of hair." He paused, flipping to the next page with hesitation. "Robert Baratheon, black of hair."
"Joffrey Baratheon," She supplied, catching a glimpse of the name below the king. "Golden-haired." Lyarra took in a breath, as Eddard sat back in his seat — his hands coming to rest on his forehead.
"We don't know what this means, Ned." Her words shook as she bit them out, a lack of certainty within them.
"We do. I think I've always known it.." Eddard trailed off, rubbing his forehead with fervor. Robert Baratheon's children were bastards. The prince, Joffrey, Robert's heir — was a bastard. The king had no trueborn children. The two only stayed together for another hour, before Lyarra moved to retreat to her quarters. There was nothing they could do, not now at least. She willed herself to trust that her brother wouldn't do anything foolish, before making her way out of the room. Once she swung open the door, she was met with Sandor's looming figure once again. She'd half expected him to retreat to his own quarters, but instead he'd waited for her. He raised a brow at her forlorn expression, but she only waved him off.
Lyarra all but ushered him into her room, glancing only once at him with a pleading glare. She did not want to be alone, not with what she had just learned. She had half the mind to pause in hesitation. Sandor worked for the Lannisters, beyond anything. The king had ultimate rule, but at the end of the day he was Prince Joffrey's sworn sword. She wasn't certain he was to be trusted, she couldn't be. But as the man took his seat, ripping off his gauntlets to properly clutch the mug of wine — she couldn't bring herself to do much more than sit at his side.
She wasn't certain how long the two sat in silence, only taking note of his overwhelming warmth — as she couldn't help but lean into his side. He seemed to stiffen his shoulder, hardening himself so that she could place her weight against him as she began to drift. Once sleep properly overtook her, she could only distantly feel the pressure shifting — moving from her side. She let out a light grunt, a sound that bordered on a whine more than anything. As light crept into her vision, she could just barely make out the snort that she was met with. Lyarra swatted at the man, as he lifted her — placing her in her furs in one quick sweep. Just as Sandor moved to retreat, Lyarra shot forward, taking hold of his wrist — sleep still clouding her vision as she squinted.
His surprise wasn't evident in his disinterested glare, but she felt the tension building within him all the same.
"Stay," She requested, her voice rasping with the lack of use, "Please. I don't want to be alone." Lyarra realized at once that she was still grasping onto his bare hand, and pulled back in an instant. Sandor hesitated only momentarily, glancing over her. She half expected him to turn on his heel and leave, just as he had in the past. Only this time, he stepped back.
"Anyone ever tell you you're fucking' freezing, Little Wolf?" Sandor inquired, his tone disinterested once more. He made his way across the room, taking his seat with a huff. After a moment, Lyarra took note of the fact that she'd been staring. When it became clear that he had no intention on saying anything else, she resigned herself to lay back down — pulling the furs up with her. Just as quickly as it had before, sleep overtook her — only this time, she couldn't help but feel comforted by the thought of Sandor only a few feet away.
"I take it you've figured it all out, then?"
Lyarra stopped in her tracks, running her hand along the thickets of flowers in front of her. The petals seemed to wilt at her touch, as she pulled away. Petyr's coy grin was not a surprising sight, but it did fill her with tension. Sandor bristled at his side, his palm coming to rest on the hilt of his blade. Lyarra only waved him off with what she hoped was a reassuring grimace.
"Do you need something, Lord Baelish?" The formalities of her words sticking out like a sore thumb. Petyr, to his credit, did not flinch at the venom beneath her tone. He only stood taller, widening his stance as he opened his arms.
"A moment of your time, if I may." He paused, his gaze flickering to the man at her side, "My lady."
Lyarra briefly caught Sandor's questioning stare, bidding him to retreat with a nod. He hesitated for only a moment, before nodding in return — making his way through the entrance of the garden and down the hall.
"How was it? Connecting the dots, watching everything fall in a line before you. At once, understanding all that had been tearing you apart." His words were spat out hastily, though the man never once lost his composure.
"I'm not sure what you mean," She stated, raising her brow as Petyr did not do much more than widen his smirk.
"Lyarra Stark, you may just survive us yet."
Had they been in any other situation, Lyarra was certain she would have found humor within his words. Only this time, his presence was only furthering her stress — her building tension.
"Now, your brother — I'm not certain he is as .. reticent as you are," Lyarra paused at once, clutching her own sleeve to calm herself. "Rumor has it, he had an audience with the Queen. Not long ago, in this very garden. In which he all but promised to reveal her secrets, requesting she leave King's Landing alongside her children at once."
Of course, Eddard would be blinded by his own pride. He would be so focused on protecting the lives of the innocent, that he would ignore the threat staring back at him. She'd been tearing herself up at the thought of Ned getting himself hurt, and here he was. As if sensing her thoughts, Petyr reached a palm out — grasping onto her available hand. She had half the mind to pull away, before he only clutched it tighter.
"Your brother made a foolish decision, but it's not too late for him. It won't be for you, either, if you listen to what I have to say."
"I don't have time for this, Petyr," She bit, wrenching her hand from his grasp. Petyr only faltered in the slightest, as she bunched her gown up in her hands — making long strides across the garden. Before she could reach the exit, he called out to her once more.
"Have I fallen so far, in your eyes, that you can no longer trust me at all? Do I hold such little value to you, my old friend?"
Lyarra paused, willing herself to not crumble at the inquiry. She knew better than to trust his word as it was, but beneath it — in his eyes, she could see the boy she'd met years ago. The boy who only wanted a friend, who wanted more than anything to keep her at his side — as they built the lives they wanted for themselves.
"What is it that you have to say?" She questioned, her resolve crumbling as the man let out an almost unnoticeable sigh of relief. He beckoned her over, taking a seat on a stone bench. After a moment she followed suit, keeping a careful distance from him.
"I have only advice to offer. Trust no one. Everyone is playing a game, the game of thrones — alike to most, except in this particular puzzle you have only two possible resolutions. You win, or you die." His words spun an incomprehensible web, one that Lyarra found herself desperate to cling onto. "If you want to win, there is only one thing you can do. As I said, trust no one. And yet, make sure that everyone trusts you. Loyalty kills more men than fealty."
"What if I don't want to win?"
"Lyarra Stark," Petyr started, reaching to place his hands in her lap, "I know you well enough to know what you want. What you have always wanted — same as me." She paused, waiting for him to supply his answer.
"Everything."
Lyarra's head began to swim with possibilities, as she once more thought over what the two could accomplish — at one another's side.
"I will do what I can to keep your fool of a brother alive," Petyr claimed, squeezing her hands as he continued, "and in return, I ask only one thing of you."
"Alright," Lyarra swallowed, the conversation hitting her all at once. "What is it?"
"Don't trust Clegane. Don't allow him close to you — don't allow him to care for you." At once, Lyarra recoiled — raising from her seat as the man showed no sign of stopping. Her own doubts were coming to the light in that moment, but the thought of listening to more of Petyr's complaints about Sandor only had her reeling.
"Listen to me," He pleaded. "How can you be certain that you can trust him, to begin with? He's the Lannister's dog. A hound heeds only its master's commands. No matter how hard you try to tame him, you can't." She couldn't bring herself to do much more than stare back at the man in horror — as he continued to spin his words of gold. Lyarra couldn't deny that he had a point. She couldn't trust that if it came down to it, Sandor would protect her against the Lannisters. He would slay her as easily as he had the butcher's boy. The realization had her blood running cold, as she took a step back — intent on leaving the garden at once.
"Think about it. That's all I ask of you."
By the time Lyarra had found Eddard, he'd been stalking through the halls — his cane in hand. She had half the mind to begin scolding him then and there, before another voice interrupted her.
"Ned," The voice called, and at once Lyarra and Ned spun on their heels to meet the man. Renly was panting, red in the face — with tattered, bloodied clothing. "It's Robert. We were hunting. A boar."
Renly stepped back, before quickly returning down the hall he'd come from. Terror built within her, as the implications of his words sunk in. If Robert was wounded, fatally at that, their safety within the capital was no longer promised. The king had ensured that she and Ned would have a place in the halls of the keep, but the Lannisters held no love for the Starks. Before she could allow herself to unravel much further, she grasped onto Ned's free hand — squeezing it comfortingly. All things considered, Robert was still a brother to him. He loved him, despite it all.
Once they reached the king's chambers, they were met with the sight of the prince — who had been all but curling into Robert's side. His eyes were filled with terror, his face a contortion of emotion — something Lyarra had not been certain the boy was capable of. At once, the king bid him to leave. Once Robert caught her gaze, his own expression filled with pain.
"My fault," He added as an explanation. He was bare from the neck down, a brown quilt pulled up to his chest. Blood trickled from his lips as words began to pour out. "Too much wine. Missed my thrust."
Eddard reached forward to pull back the quilt, revealing the open wound. At once, Lyarra had to force herself not to clutch her nose — the stench of death filling the small room. Taking note of her disgusted state, the king rasped out a laugh.
"Stinks, don't it?" He asked, though his tone gave way to no real sense of a question, "Stinks like death. Don't think I can't smell it."
As the two men began to speak amongst themselves, Lyarra's mind flitted to the queen. She did not want to make an enemy of Cersei Lannister, though her brother seemingly did not have the same thought. She considered approaching her, comforting her to the best of her ability. But quickly thought better of it. Instead, she only glanced at the woman — bristling as she was met with eyes that were already boring into her.
"Now leave us, all of you. I need to talk to Ned and Lyarra." Robert rasped. At once, the queen moved to argue — but true to his character, he only raised his voice. She realized, then, that Cersei was certain of what Eddard intended to do. He would tell Robert anything, had he been given the chance. Every word. Once it was only the three of them, the king beckoned Lyarra over — taking her hand in his. The act had her gut swirling with disgust, but she willed herself to swallow it down, taking a seat on his side.
"You damned fool." Eddard complained, his tone resigned — as if he'd already accepted what was to come.
"Paper and ink, on the table. Write down what I say."
Eddard reached to the object, raising the pen with trepidation.
"In the name of Robert, of the House Baratheon, First of .. you know how it goes." Lyarra hardly held back a snort, something that only seemed to delight the king. "Fill in the damned titles. I hereby command Eddard of House Stark, titles, titles... to serve as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my death, to rule in my stead until my son Joffrey comes of age." Ned paused, meeting her questioning stare. The two knew well enough the truth of Joffrey's parentage. He was not Robert's heir, not even by a stretch of the word. However, Eddard only kept writing.
Robert strained, grasping the quill in hand to sign the paper. He bid Ned to bring it to the Council, once he passed.
"You'll rule now," He told Ned, a bitter smile forcing itself to his bloody lips, "You'll hate it worse than I did, but you'll do it well."
"And you," Robert directed towards Lyarra, "You keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't do anything foolish, if you can." He spat, squeezing her hand once more. She forced herself to smile at the man, dread building within her.
"My son. Help him, Ned. Make him better than me."
"I'll," Eddard paused, taking a breath as he seemed to consider his words, "I'll do everything I can, to honor your memory."
"My memory," Robert laughed — spitting specks of blood as the hoarse sound fell from his lips, "King Robert Baratheon. Murdered by a pig."
"Give me something for the pain, and let me die." Eddard rose after only a moment, reaching to grasp the vial of milk of the poppy that sat on his bedside. Robert tugged on Lyarra's hand, pulling her attention back to him.
"I loved your sister, you know. I did. More than anything," Though his words sickened her, the thought of her sister had Lyarra's heart bubbling in grief. "You look just like her. Just as beautiful as ever. I'm gladdened by the thought, that the last thing I see will be her face smiling down at me. My beautiful Lyanna," He reached out to grasp her face in his hand. She hardly held back her flinch at the name, before he allowed her to leave — following her brother with haste.
"So, why did you call me here? Not for my wisdom, clearly."
Lyarra sat perched on the windowsill while Petyr and Ned continued to argue. He'd entered soon after Eddard had prepared a raven for Stannis Baratheon, detailing the truth. Renly had confronted the two, not long after they left the king's chambers. Lyarra had half the mind to agree with the man, to support his succession. Renly's claim was built solely on love, on the admiration he'd brewed in his honor. And yet, why should he not be king? If Robert could usurp the throne, why couldn't Renly? Eddard, however, held no such thought. In his eyes, Stannis was the rightful king — his morals preventing him from seeing any different.
As expected, Petyr viewed this opportunity as a move for power, telling her brother such. He failed to consider — or at the very least, failed to acknowledge — his streak of honor. Eddard would never break an oath, especially not with someone he considered family. Lyarra thought of defending Petyr more than once, as she couldn't help but think over the idea in her mind.
She didn't want a place near the throne — nor did Eddard, but the two needed power. They needed surety that they'd be safe from the Lannisters.
"You've always been a friend to my sister. More than once, she's described you as a man of honor. If that's truly the case, I'll need your help. The queen has a dozen knights and a hundred men-at-arms, enough to overwhelm what remains of our household guard. I need the Gold Cloaks. The City Watch is two thousand strong, and sworn to defend the king's peace."
Lyarra observed as Petyr's grin widened, pulling across his lips.
"Look at you. You know what you want me to do, you know it has to be done, but it's not honorable, so, the words stick in your throat. When the queen proclaims one king, and the Hand proclaims another, whose peace do the Gold Cloaks protect? Who do they follow?" He affirmed, his own pleasure building within him — as he observed Eddard's resolve fade.
"The man who pays them," Lyarra chimed in, taking note of the delight in Petyr's expression. Eddard nodded after a moment, and with that — Petyr made his leave, taking one more lingering glance of Lyarra. Once the man was gone, with the door safely fastened in his wake — her brother begrudgingly turned to her.
"You know, it'd be nice if just for once — you could take my side. I deal with enough arguments as it is." Lyarra's heart panged with guilt, as she moved to kneel at his side. She took his hand in hers, clutching onto it as she gazed up at him.
"All of this? It's a game, Ned. You either win, or you die. I would give my life to ensure yours, ten times over. But if I could, I would save us both by any means necessary."
"I won't let anyone hurt you, Lyarra. I promise you, I'll keep you and the girls safe. No matter the cost. But if we give in to their .. game, we aren't any better than they are."
Lyarra was struck with love for her brother in that moment, as his honor continued to guide him. He would never allow himself to do something against his moral code, regardless of what could happen otherwise. If there was one good man in the kingdom, Lyarra was certain he was standing before her.
Soon after Petyr left, Eddard had asked Lyarra to find his daughters — to ensure they would be ready for travel soon. With all that had happened, she almost forgot they would be leaving Winterfell within a few days. They'd be safe, at the very least. But the thought of leaving King's Landing gave her pause — something that she thought against unraveling further.
Septa Mordane was detailing another pointless tale, one that neither Sansa nor Lyarra had been paying attention to. To the best of her knowledge, Arya was at another 'dancing' lesson. They'd have to retrieve her in due time, but for the time being the three allowed themselves to roam through the hall. They only paused at the sight of Lannister guards approaching. Two men, who showed no sign of stopping. Septa Mordane turned to Lyarra at once, her glare sharp — and in an instant, she knew what to do.
Lyarra realized in horror, what must have happened. They were too late. Renly, Petyr — they were both right. Eddard made the wrong move. The king was dead, giving the Lannisters full power.
She grasped onto Sansa's arm, tugging the girl forward — as the pair turned on their heels and ran. Just barely, she could make out Sansa's complaints — though they were hardly audible over the sound of her ragged panting. Just as they'd turned a corner, they were met with a familiar figure.
"Sandor," Lyarra warned as the man approached. He didn't pause in his motion once, only pursuing the pair further. She moved in front of Sansa at once, placing the girl behind her. Finally, the man halted — and with their proximity, she could see the conflict in his eyes. She knew, at once, that Petyr was right. With a sinking realization, she came to accept the fact that Sandor Clegane was only a dog.
One who would come to his owner's beck and call, regardless of how his eyes shined for her.
"Come on, Little Wolf. Don't make this difficult." A sickening grin split across his lips, as Lyarra took a step back — pushing Sansa further.
"Stay away from us! I'll tell my father, I'll.." Sansa trailed off, her voice quivering, "I'll tell the queen."
Sandor cocked his head at her words, seemingly only growing further amused. Lyarra let out a hushed curse, at once halting in her step. He would stop at nothing to obey his master's command. He would take them, whether they were willing or no. Sansa's eyes widened as her aunt's resolve slipped.
"Who do you think sent him?" She questioned bitterly, taking Sansa by the arm once more — as she pushed the girl to her side. "Well? Go on, dog." Lyarra bit, taking the slightest bit of pleasure at the way he almost winced at her words. His brow furrowed, taking in her venom. For once, Lyarra found herself wishing that she'd never met Sandor Clegane. That he hadn't saved her from the wrath of her brother, hadn't spent his evenings with her — carried her to her bed, stayed with her when she needed a companion. She wished, then, that she had never left Petyr's side. That she'd listened to him, from the very beginning.
Phew. That was a lot. Okay, so. Let's break that down. We got a lot more plot .. stuff. Whole lot of Baratheon-ing going on. But, we also got the start of a very complex plot line. Petyr has finally convinced Lyarra that she can't trust Sandor, despite .. literally everything that has happened so far. Good job Petyr.. I guess. It's a very complicated picture, and it only goes to show the love that she's had for her friend for so long. While she's thinking to herself 'wow, why didn't I just trust Petyr?' he is literally betraying her entire family .. Like at that exact moment. Awkward.
Also, you may be thinking, 'Why did Lyarra not care that Sandor killed Mycah, but cares now that he is actively taking the Lannister's side?" Erm. Well. Plot? No, I'm kidding. Lyarra is in a very complicated space right now. She doesn't know who she can trust. But, the past few days Sandor has not left her side. And she's aware of how close they were growing. So part of her expected him to show a little bit more .. restraint? She would never expect him to entirely take her side, or abandon his post. But Petyr got into her head. She doesn't believe that she can trust him anymore. Also — he promised to protect her, more than once. And now, in her eyes, he's just blatantly breaking that promise.
Anyways, the next few chapters are probably going to be pretty emo. It's going to take a lot for Sandor to become someone she can trust again, and likely will take even more for her to remove herself from Petyr's side. I wonder how these things will play out.. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. And as always, please feel free to leave any comments below.
The Small Council meetings seemed run for hours, as Lyarra paced through the halls of the Keep. More than once, she had escorted Eddard to one — if only to peak her head in to see Petyr. Each time, she'd been met with another uneasy glance from Varys. She had half the mind to confront the man, to question what his issue was — but thought better of it at once.
After Catelyn's departure from the Capital, Petyr had taken to walking with Lyarra throughout the gardens rather than have her make the journey from the Keep. Sansa had joined them only once, though she spent more than half of the afternoon sneaking glances at Petyr himself. The man was an enigma, as was their relationship itself. She'd caught Eddard glaring after him in his wake each time he'd left Lyarra's side for the night. She knew well enough that the man was hard to trust, but their open wariness of him gave her pause.
Sandor, on the other hand, had all but disappeared after the last time the two had drank together. She thought of asking Petyr about the man, and likely would have had she been a few years younger — but she swallowed the thought with a grimace. It'd do no good, giving Petyr any reason to think that she was interested in the whereabouts of Sandor Clegane.
As the members of the Small Council filed out of the room, Lyarra lingered to the side — awaiting the sight of her brother. Just as she'd noticed Petyr coming into view, her gaze was blocked by a figure standing in her way. Varys, with his hands clasped within the sleeves of his crimson robe — stood before her, his expression unreadable.
"A moment if it'd please you, my Lady?" He requested, tilting his head so that she could not look past him — no doubt blocking her view of Petyr intentionally. Lyarra nodded after a moment of considering his words. She'd been advised more than once not to trust the man, typically by Petyr himself — but it would do no harm to hear what he had to say.
Varys guided her then to what she could only assume was his own study, taking his place across a desk as he gently shut the door behind them.
"I come only with a warning, my Lady. Be wary of whom you call friend. These are troubling times, and it would do you no good to put your trust in the wrong person." He all but whispered, lips curving to form a look of intensity. Lyarra paused, taking in his words, as she took a seat across from him.
"How am I meant to trust you, then?" She questioned in retaliation, nerves crawling under her skin. She was partly aggravated already by the disruption. Her words caused him no surprise, though his grin did pull a bit further across his face — giving way to his approval.
"It's quite simple, I'm afraid. Don't," He stated, his words final. Lyarra cocked a brow as he continued, "Don't trust me. I am only a man — if you choose to see me as such, that is — and men lie."
"However, I must say it would be in your best interest to trust my word." All the while, Varys' hands remained clasped within the confines of his robe. He raised a brow of his own to Lyarra, bidding her to respond. She only gaped for a moment before she collected herself, nodding as she processed it all. The moment she'd given her approval, the man dawned an expression of disinterest — sitting back in his seat, as he made it clear he was finished with the conversation. Lyarra excused herself just a beat after, rushing back to her quarters with a mix of confusion and trepidation. The man was more cryptic than she would have liked, and Lyarra did not know whether to appreciate that she had someone who cared for her well-being — or frightened at the thought of being watched.
As she rounded the corner, she came face-to-face with a familiar sight. Just before her, stood Arya — who was balancing her weight on one of her feet. Behind her, she could just barely make out the sound of approaching footsteps — and she turned with amusement to her brother. Eddard raised a brow at her expression, before noticing his daughter as he looked past her.
"Syrio says a water dancer can stand on one toe for hours," Arya claimed, her smile bright as she spoke. Lyarra's heart tugged at the thought, as she leaned against the stone wall to watch the girl. She glanced down at her feet then, before meeting her gaze with mock-confusion.
"Doesn't look like you're standing on your toes to me," She argued, growing further amused by the scowl that pulled across Arya's face. Behind her, Eddard scoffed, as he came to stand at her side. Arya repositioned herself, attempting to place weight on one toe alone — before she stumbled just slightly.
"It's a hard fall down these steps." He remarked, though all things considered he did not appear particularly worried. His expression was once of intrigue alone, as he smiled up at his daughter. Arya did not seem perturbed by his words, and instead only stood taller — replacing her weight on the other foot.
"Syrio says every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better." After a moment, Arya placed both feet on the ground — finally meeting their gazes properly.
"Tomorrow, I'm going to be chasing cats."
"Cats?" Eddard questioned, turning to Lyarra then — before they both noticed Arya moving to speak again.
"Syrio says," The siblings started in tandem, though Arya did not allow it to disturb her. Instead, she carried on as if they hadn't spoken a word to begin with.
"He says every swordsman should study cats. They're as quiet as shadows and as light as feathers. You have to be quick to catch them." Arya stated, approaching the two until she was just past Lyarra — standing directly in front of her father. Eddard met his sister's gaze only once, seemingly taking note of her intentions, before he leaned into Arya's space.
"He's right about that," He started, glancing up at Lyarra as she lunged — picking the girl up in one quick motion. Arya flailed for a moment — shouting at the top of her lungs, before she grumbled, throwing her arms down in defeat.
"Too bad you are not a cat!" Lyarra exclaimed, spinning the girl — before placing her back down on her feet. Once she had collected herself, she turned back to her father as if nothing had happened at all, save for the glare she shot in Lyarra's direction.
"Now that Bran's awake, will he come live with us? And Reyne? Will she come too?" She questioned, and at once all jovial feeling was sucked out of Lyarra. Reyne was only still in Winterfell due to Bran's condition. Now that she'd arrived at King's Landing without her, part of her longed to see her daughter again — and the other part knew better than to invite her into the Lion's den.
"Well, he'll need to get his strength back first. And Reyne will be at his side, all the while."
"He wants to be a Knight of the Kingsguard. He can't be one now, can he?" At her inquiry, Lyarra reached out to rub Arya's shoulder. The girl shot her a confused look, as if she did not understand her sympathy. She wasn't asking out of pity, instead out of pure curiosity alone. Eddard took a seat by Arya's side, then, while Lyarra placed herself beside the two. They spent a moment thinking of what the boy's future could be. He could become a lord of a holdfast, he could sit in the Small Council — or he could become a builder. Reyne herself could serve as his handmaiden, or even become a Septa with time.
"Can I be lord of a holdfast?" Arya inquired, her eyes trained on Lyarra rather than her father. She felt herself swallow dryly, at that. In some moments, she and Lyanna were so similar. Always seeking to rise above their station, to rise above the ideals placed on women. Just before Eddard had gone to speak, Lyarra grabbed Arya's hands — her eyes leveling, to meet her gaze.
"You can be anything you'd like, my dear Arya. You don't have to marry a high Lord and rule his castle, have sons that grow to be Knights and Lords," Before she could say much else, she was met with a stern look from Eddard. But Arya shook her head all the same, agreeing with her words.
"No, that's not me."
Lyarra only tightened her grip on Arya's hands, nodding as she had expected the answer.
"That's not me, either, nor was it your Aunt. I found my place, as you will find yours." She stated simply, willfully ignoring Eddard's flinch at the mention of their sister. They did not often speak of Lyanna, and when they did it had never been so freely. Yet in that moment, she couldn't help but see her sister staring back up at her — through the eyes and spirit of her niece.
The following morning, Petyr had sent word that he would not be able to attend their usual walk through the gardens. The message gave her pause for only a moment, before she begrudgingly allowed herself to tend to her other duties. Aianna had spent the morning guiding her through the keep, before the two came across the solemn force of her brother. Eddard greeted Aianna by name, something that he'd only taken a second meeting to learn, and she bid the two farewell with a quick nod. Lyarra watched the girl retreat with fondness, as she turned inquisitively to her brother.
At his side stood Jory, whose eyes carried a flicker of concern within them. Before she could say much of anything, a thick scroll was placed in her hands.
"I need you to deliver this to the King. I have .. other matters to attend to," He trailed off, glancing over her shoulder as he spoke. Lyarra furrowed her brow in confusion as he continued, but nodded all the same. She hadn't seen the King much, since arriving at King's Landing — though she could hardly complain. Jory marched ahead of her, scroll in hand, as the two made their way to the King's quarters.
As they approached the room, they were met with the sound of resounding moans. Lyarra couldn't help but snort as she noticed the blush creeping up Jory's neck. She had half the mind to tease him, before she took note of Jaime Lannister standing by the door — his expression conflicted, though his eyes gave way for the anger within.
"This is for the King, from Lord Stark." Jory greeted, his own embarrassment never halting his motions. All the while, Jaime did not raise his head to meet their eyes — instead, his stare bore holes into the floor beneath them. "Should I leave it with.." He continued, but was quickly cut off by a sharp hush from Jaime.
"Listen," He motioned to the door, as moans rang through the halls. The King's laugh was a familiar sound, as they only increased in volume. The sound made Lyarra sick, and after a moment all humor fled from her. She was finding it increasingly difficult to not pity the Queen, with the more time she spent in King's Landing. "Do you hear them?" He asked, addressing Jory alone. He'd yet to meet Lyarra's gaze properly, a fact that she could only assume was intentional.
"How many do you think are in there with him?"
"Is there a point to this, Ser Jaime?" She questioned as the man continued. Finally, he met her stare then — his eyes wide, as if he hadn't expected her to speak. Jory bristled at her side, but said nothing.
"He likes to do this when I'm on duty. Makes me listen as he insults my sister," Jaime continued, never once breaking from Lyarra's gaze. She almost shied away from the intensity of it, but contained her hesitation with a grimace. She might not look at Cersei fondly, but no one deserved the treatment the King was giving her. After a moment, one of the girls ran out — shooting them all a wary glance.
"Forgive me, my Lord—" Jory started, but was quickly cut off before he could say much else.
"Why do I have to forgive you? Have you wronged me? Or you, Lyarra, for that matter. Have you wronged me?" The lack of formalities was not lost on Lyarra, though she couldn't bring herself to do much more than stare back at the man before her. Jaime tilted his head, awaiting her response.
"Have the two of you met before?" Jory chimed in, breaking the tension between the pair. Jaime, at that, took a step back — as if he'd finally reached his senses, his vision now clear of any emotion.
Lyarra paused for only a moment, willing Jaime to speak. When the man made it clear he'd intended on giving no response, she nodded — moving back in the direction that she'd once came. Just barely, she could hear the men speaking behind her — though she no longer cared for what they had to say. Jaime Lannister was not the man she'd met years ago. She could only wonder who he'd become.
The remainder of Lyarra's days leading up to the tourney were spent alongside Aianna. Petyr had yet to reappear, and thus each morning Aianna had taken to walking her through the gardens. Despite the sense of impending doom she'd felt with each growing moment in King's Landing, she was grateful for the girl's presence. At the very least, she'd made one friend. Aianna had intended on escorting Lyarra to the first day of the event itself, but had been ushered out by Septa Mordane. Instead, she requested that Lyarra stay by Sansa's side through the event. Despite this, Lyarra ensured that Aianna would sit beside her throughout it — with Sansa on her left.
Sandor, she'd learned, would be competing in the tourney. Though he was not an anointed knight, he was a sworn-sword of the Crown Prince. One would not argue with his authority, and Robert clearly never had the mind to forbid him from participating.
Just as they had gone to take their seats, Lyarra took note of a familiar figure flitting in and out of the tents surrounding the grounds. She snuck out of her line just before Septa Mordane could say a word, waving off a concerned glance from Aianna. Though she had half the mind to consider what she was doing, Lyarra allowed her feet to carry her into the tent — stopping only when she came to stand in front of Sandor. Surprise was evident within his gaze, though he did not move at the sight of her. Before he could say a word, Lyarra removed a cloth with a sapphire hue from within her sleeve, moving to tie it around his chain gauntlet. As she pulled back to face him, her breath caught at the intense look in his eyes.
Sandor didn't appear angry, nor was he outwardly pleased. He seemed to be more confused than anything, as if it was his first time receiving a favor. In that same breath, it was Lyarra's first time giving one. Though she could not bring herself to regret it, as he tied it tighter around his wrist. She did not allow him to say anything else, and instead turned on her heel — rushing to take her spot beside Aianna and her niece. Septa Mordane questioned her after a moment, but unsurprisingly Lyarra only waved her words off.
Just as she'd settled, she noticed Sansa gazing at the Prince — who met her stare after a moment, but tore away with haste. She moved to comfort her niece, at her forlorn expression, before a voice cut in.
"A lover's quarrel?" Petyr inquired, ignoring the confused glances of the girls at Lyarra's side. Arya had never met the man, to her knowledge, though Sansa had become familiar with him in time.
"Do we know you?" Arya asked childishly, and Lyarra could hardly hold back her snort. To her side, even Aianna appeared sheepish.
"Arya dear, this is Lord Baelish. He's known.." Septa Mordane began, and Lyarra chimed in just as quickly to interrupt her — before she could name the monicker he'd been given.
"A friend of the family," She provided, relaxing in the slightest at the grin he shot her.
"I've known your mother — as well as your aunt," He added, nodding in the Lyarra's direction, "a long, long time."
"Why do they call you Littlefinger?" Arya retorted, and Lyarra had half the mind to step in — before she was silenced by a wave from Petyr. Sansa chided her sister, a fact that only seemed to further amuse the man.
"When I was a child, I was very small. I come from a little spit of land called the Fingers. So, you see, it's an exceedingly clever nickname." Petyr remarked, though she could sense the sarcasm in her tone. Just as he moved to speak again, the King let out a shout — commanding the knights to 'get on with it already'. Lyarra watched as a large figure approached the stands. She hardly noticed Petyr's voice fading into the background. She knew the man well enough, without any description necessary. Just before her, stood Gregor Clegane. The Mountain. The sight of him alone was enough to have Lyarra's blood running cold. Aianna clasped onto her hand then, ducking into her line of view.
As the joust carried on, Lyarra found herself clutching onto Aianna's hand with fervor. The sight of Gregor's opponent falling from his horse was not a shocking one, but she found herself tensing all the same.
"Has anyone ever told you the story of the Mountain and the Hound?" Petyr's voice faded in, still intent on spinning tales for Sansa. For once, Lyarra found annoyance building within her — as the man continued to speak. Had the subject of his tales been anyone else, she would have been ducking beside him — whispering as the two carried on. Only this time, she couldn't find herself clinging to his words. Instead, bile rose in her throat by the second.
"Lovely little tale of brotherly love. The Hound was just a pup, six years old, maybe. Gregor, a few years older, already a big lad. Already getting a bit of a reputation. Some lucky boys just born with a talent for violence," As the tale dragged on, Lyarra found herself glancing behind her in the direction of Sandor — only to find he had been looking at her already. His stare bore into her for a moment longer, before he turned back towards the tournament. "One evening, Gregor found his little brother playing with a toy by the fire. Gregor's toy, a wooden knight. Gregor never said a word. He just grabbed his brother by the scruff of his neck and shoved his face into the burning coals. Held him there while the boy screamed, while his face melted." Petyr paused then, glancing at Lyarra for only a moment — before turning his attention back to Sansa.
"There aren't many people who know that story," He claimed. Sansa swore not to tell anyone else, which only seemed to further please the man. Lyarra could hardly bite her tongue as the minutes stretched on, just barely maintaining her own disgust.
"Good, please don't. If the Hound so much as heard you mention it, I'm afraid all the knights in King's Landing would not be able to save you," Petyr all but promised, all the while never breaking eye contact with Lyarra. He was goading her, forcing what he could out of her — and Lyarra knew, just as the dam broke, that she was giving him exactly what he wanted.
"I'm sure 'The Hound' has better things to worry about than the whisperings of rats," She bit, standing then to take her leave. Aianna was soon to follow, as the two returned to her chambers within the Keep. The next joust wouldn't begin until the following morning, but she knew well enough the implications of her actions. Those within the stands were not permitted to leave until the King himself allowed them to. Though she doubted the thought of catching Robert's gaze, the act had left her uneasy.
"My lady, if I may?" Aianna inquired once the two had settled within Lyarra's chambers. She waved for the girl to continue, taking note of her trepidation.
"Why come to the defense of 'the Hound'?" Her question was just barely over a whisper, as if she was afraid of someone overhearing. Lyarra only shrugged, pouring herself a mug of wine — as she took a seat beside Aianna.
"I would have done the same for you. Or Lord Baelish himself, for that matter. It is unbecoming to spew such rumors, when the one in question is not present to defend themselves." Her response seemed to give Aianna pause, but the girl nodded all the same after a moment. The remaining hours of the evening were spent in that same spot, as the two shared stories between themselves. Aianna seemed to become more comfortable in her presence by the moment, though coaxing more than a few words out of her came at a great effort.
The following morning, Lyarra had been met with the unexpected presence of her brother, who sat at Sansa's side in the stands. With Aianna in tow, the two sat just behind the pair — with Petyr looming on her left. The moment he noticed her, he'd gone to speak up — but was quickly silenced by the sound of boisterous horns. The second day of the tourney was starting. She made a mental promise to deal with him later.
With the start of the second day, came Sandor's first round in the tournament. She did not recognize the man on the horse opposite him, though she hardly concerned herself with him to begin with. As Sandor approached the King, Lyarra took note of the sapphire cloth — still tied snugly around his wrist. Though she hadn't been outright in her actions, she felt Aianna's gaze on her regardless. The round itself was over just as quickly as it'd started, with Sandor's opponent on the ground — alive, unlike the man who'd gone against his brother last. She could hardly count how many times he had gone up again, after that. She didn't dare take her eyes off of the man, even to address her niece.
As Sandor moved to take his position once more, Lyarra noticed one of the servants approach him — with a basket in hand. She'd observed moments prior, as the man had been all but shoved in the Hound's direction. Even then, he seemed reluctant to present what ever it was that he'd been holding. Sandor lingered for a moment longer, before riding in the direction of the stands — stopping only when he was in front of Ned and Sansa. He reached out, and Lyarra noticed then that he had a rose in hand. Ned, who looked more confused by the minute, held the rose by the stem — as if he was afraid to touch it.
"I'm not certain of what I've done to give you the impression that—"
"Oh, for fucks' sake, it's for your fucking sister." Sandor grumbled, meeting Lyarra's eyes with an almost shy expression. He waited only for Ned to hand the rose to her, before he rode off to prepare for the joust. Lyarra was certain she was flushed in that moment, though she couldn't do much more than clutch the rose to her chest. The act had inspired numerous onlookers, and she couldn't help but wonder if he'd done such a thing before. Ned himself had turned to look at her in that moment, though he hadn't looked entirely shocked — rather more concerned than anything. She did not dare meet Petyr's wandering gaze, even as she felt his stare.
Soon after, Sandor's part in the tournament came to a close — with another pair soon to follow. Lyarra observed with only a shred less horror, as Gregor presented himself to the king.
"Where's Arya?" Eddard questioned then, peaking over his eldest daughter's shoulder — as he took note of her absence.
"At her dancing lessons," Sansa answered just as quickly, disinterest evident in her tone. Eddard met Lyarra's eyes then, with a wary expression. Just before he could say anything, Sansa loudly marveled at the sight of another knight. Lyarra was sure he was beautiful, in the same way that Jaime Lannister was. It came as no surprise to her that Sansa could not tear her eyes from him, especially as he rode on to stand before her.
"The Knight of the flowers," She cooed, wonder clear in her words. For the first time, Lyarra met Petyr's gaze — as the two shared a look of exhaustion. Tourneys were entertaining, as it was, but they seemed to never end. The Knight reached out then to present Sansa with a flower of her own, a coy smile curling across his lips. Sansa almost turned as red as the rose in her hands, as she no doubt attempted to contain her giddiness.
"Thank you, Ser Loras."
As Loras rode off to stand before the King, Lyarra couldn't help but notice Gregor's own horse's strange behavior. It spun the large man, before he could get control of it. Petyr, seemingly having the same thought, met her eyes once more — nodding in the direction of the beast, as it whinnied in discomfort. Lyarra had spent enough time with her own horse, Frost, to know what it meant, and could only hope that Ser Loras knew the same. Gregor's horse was in heat. If Loras used that knowledge to his advantage, he'd prove victorious — regardless if it was a cheap win.
"Don't let Ser Gregor hurt him," Sansa pleaded, clinging onto her father's arm. Eddard met Lyarra's gaze then, and within a moment she placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Have more faith in Ser Loras, my dear. He knows well enough what he is up against. Only a fool would feel safe against Ser Gregor," She bit the name out, swallowing down her own displeasure at speaking of the man. Sansa had only relaxed in the slightest, but she did lean into Lyarra's touch.
"A hundred gold dragons on the Mountain!" Petyr called then, seemingly ignorant to the girl's fear. Behind her, a voice met his call.
"I'll take that bet," Renly, the youngest of the Baratheon brothers, replied. Her brother had come to know him well, both due to his friendship with Robert — and his time on the Small Council. She, however, had never had the pleasure of meeting the man. Though, she admitted he appeared to be one of the more trustworthy men of the capital.
"Now, what will I buy with one hundred gold dragons?" Petyr questioned to himself, "A dozen barrels of Dornish wine? Or a girl from the pleasure houses of Lys?"
"Do us both a favor, and buy yourself a moment of silence," Lyarra hissed, removing herself from Sansa's side if only to grab Petyr's hand. His brow furrowed at her aggravation, before he seemed to collect himself — brushing off the front of his coat. No doubt, he wouldn't take her belittling him publicly well, but she'd had about enough of his quips for one day.
"Seems like it'd do you some good to listen to your friend, Lord Baelish." Renly claimed, shooting Lyarra a not unkind smile. She forced one of her own in return, but was certain it came out as more of a grimace than anything.
They were interrupted then, by the trumpets blaring once more. At once, the men were off. Loras made quick work of his lance, jabbing Gregor's horse in the right position — as the beast collapsed beneath the large man. Resounding gasps shot within the stands, as they observed the Mountain's defeat. She couldn't help her own grin, as Renly stood up — all the while laughing, no doubt celebrating Loras' victory. If the Mountain's loss brought Lyarra a bit of peace, that was her own business. Petyr, however, did not seem pleased — though he did seem to relax at Lyarra's joy.
"Such a shame, Littlefinger. Perhaps it would do you well to listen to your friend more," Renly exclaimed, never once meeting Petyr's stare, instead staring after Ser Loras. Lyarra could hardly help her own snort, causing the Baratheon to meet her gaze with mirth.
"And tell me, Lord Renly, when will you be having your friend?" Within an instant, any hint of amusement from within Renly had vanished. Lyarra's gut churned, as she took in the implications of his words. Due to the man's reaction alone, she could hardly bring herself to doubt them. Though, she could not help but wonder how that was any of Petyr's business. He knew everything about everyone, she was sure — a fact that she often admired him for. However, he had no right to share information of the sort so willingly. Lyarra glanced over the crowd, though no one had seemingly taken in his words. Reply's gaze was vacant, his lips curled into a scowl. She had half the mind to say something to him, before Petyr's voice chimed in again.
"Loras knew his mare was in heat. Quite crafty, really." He claimed, turning to Lyarra for confirmation. She nodded, glancing ahead at the man who now approached the king.
"Ser Loras would never do that, there's no honor in tricks." Sansa argued, her pout becoming more pronounced within seconds. Eddard himself looked conflicted, as he glanced between Petyr and his sister.
"There's rarely any honor to be found in fighting the Mountain," Lyarra stated, moving to grab onto Sansa's shoulder once more. As if her words alone summoned him into action, Gregor stood then — throwing his helmet beyond the stands.
"Sword!" He called. A man came running then with a blade, and the sight of the Mountain wielding such a weapon gave her pause. No one else had seemed to notice, save for Sandor — who hadn't once taken his eyes off of his brother. Everyone else had been captivated by Loras, who now bowed before the King. Lyarra sat back in horror, as Gregor brought his sword down on his horse's head, cleaving it off in one quick motion. Aianna grasped onto her hand, then, shaking almost unnoticeably. Even Petyr paused, though one look in his eyes gave way to his fascination.
Gregor rushed forward, knocking Ser Loras from his horse. The crowd stood then, gasps littering through them — as screams of horror rose from their throats. Just as Gregor moved to bring his blade down on Loras' head, he was pushed by another figure.
"Leave him be," Sandor commanded, shoving the boy behind him — as he raised his blade to meet his brother's. The sight filled Lyarra with another dose of horror, though this time she'd felt her fear more viscerally. The two continued to brawl, taking swing after swing. Lyarra pulled her gaze away only to look to the King, who hadn't moved a muscle. He'd seemed almost enthralled by the action. As Gregor raised his blade once more, the man finally rose to his feet.
"Stop this madness in the name of your king!" He called out, and for the first time in what could have been minutes — Lyarra found her breath. She collected herself then, coming to notice that she'd had Petyr's robe balled into her fists. She released him just as quickly, muttering a low apology — all the while never taking her eyes off of Sandor. The man had dropped to his knee the moment he'd been addressed, while Gregor continued to stumble. The Mountain threw his sword down then, stomping out of the crowd. Ser Loras approached Sandor then, timidly, but with purpose all the same.
"I owe you my life, Ser." He breathed, and the moment the words left his lips, Lyarra knew what the other man's response would be. Though she hadn't known him long, he'd taken a presence in her life for years now. His words were familiar, and more often than not — predictable.
"I'm no Ser," He grumbled, true to Lyarra's expectations. Regardless, Loras reached to raise his hand victoriously — though, Sandor kept his gaze trained on the ground. Sansa was on her feet in an instant, applauding the men — with the remainder of the crowd soon to follow. Lyarra herself remained seated, though she applauded fiercely — nudging Aianna with her boot to do the same. After a moment, Sandor reluctantly pulled his eyes to the crowd, seemingly scanning through it before he caught sight of his target. Lyarra met his gaze then, and within an instant — the man appeared timid, shrinking in on himself. The sight forced Lyarra's breath to catch in her throat. She'd never seen such a large man appear so small, due to praise alone.
Eddard rocked in his seat as he waited for the reappearance of his daughter. Since the tourney, Lyarra hadn't once left his side. Arya hadn't been seen for hours, a fact that had Ned on his heels — calling quickly for his men to find her. It was no cause for concern, in Lyarra's mind. Arya often ran off, something that reminded her of herself as a child. She did her best to comfort her brother, assuring him that no harm had likely come to the girl — before they were interrupted by two guards.
The men escorted Arya into the room, who'd been covered in dirt from head to toe. Lyarra contained her laughter, and instead moved to clean the girl off. Arya leaned out of her grasp more than once with a scowl.
"You know I had half my guard out searching for you?" Eddard grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. Her heart panged with sympathy for a moment, before she turned back to brush off her niece. "You promised me this would stop,"
"They said they were going to kill you," At once, Lyarra ceased her motions — pulling back to look into Arya's eyes.
"Who did?"
"I didn't see them," She trailed off, glancing down at Lyarra then. "But I think one was fat."
Lyarra whacked the girl with her rag then, but Arya did not budge. Her words were final. She believed what she was saying, a fact that had her own blood running cold.
"I'm not lying! They said you found the bastard, and the wolves are fighting the lions and the savage," She paused, her eyes moving wildly as she seemed to conjure what she could remember, "something about the savage."
"Where did you hear this?" Lyarra questioned, bending her knee to meet Arya's stare.
"In the dungeons, near the dragon skulls."
Their conversation continued for only a moment longer, before Jory entered the room. At once, their heads all snapped to him. Lyarra could see the tension building within her brother. Something Arya said had given him pause. She wished then, more than anything, to lift the burden from his shoulders — if only to see him filled with peace for but a moment.
"Pardon, my Lord. There's a Night's Watchman here begging a word. He says it's urgent," Jory stated, leaning through the doorway to face Eddard. The mention of the Watch had Lyarra frozen, as she thought of Jon. She wondered, then, if he'd become assimilated with the Night's Watch yet. If he'd become a brother, having sworn his vows.
A man walked in shortly after, with long brown hair — and a suit of leather. His expression was grim, though not particularly unkind. She moved to stand by Arya, then, curling an arm around her shoulder while Eddard stepped to their side.
"Your name, friend?"
"Yoren, if it please." The man greeted, standing tall before the group. The name came as no reminder, as she'd never heard Benjen mention him — but the sight of him had her longing to be at her younger brother's side once more. "This must be your son," He claimed, pointing in the direction of Arya, "He has the look,"
"I'm a girl," Arya argued, pouting at his words. Lyarra could hardly hold back her snort, though she collected herself at the exasperated look Ned shot her.
"Did Benjen send you?" Lyarra asked, tilting her head as she took in the sight of him. Jory stood solemnly in the doorway, crossing his arms over himself.
"No one sent me, my Lady. I'm here to find men for the wall, see if there's any scum in the dungeons that might be fit for service."
Eddard promised Yoren recruits, and moved quickly to take his seat once more — before noticing the man had not moved an inch. "Thank you, my Lord, but that's not why I disturb you now. Your brother Benjen, his blood runs black, makes him as much my brother as yours. It's for his sake I rode here so hard, I damned near killed my horse. There are others riding too. The whole city will know by tomorrow."
"Know what?"
"Best said in private, my Lord." His gaze only grew more final, as he turned to glance at both Arya and Lyarra. She realized then that the pair weren't welcome for what ever it was the man had to say.
"Come, Arya. Let's get you cleaned up for supper," Jory followed suit behind the pair. Only a brief moment of silence lasted, before Arya began questioning the pair on anything she appeared to think of. How many men her father had in his service, how loyal were they, whether they'd protect him. The thought only had Lyarra's stomach churning stronger, as she grasped onto Arya's shoulder.
Eddard summoned Lyarra to his study just before the sun fell. He told her then, everything he had been keeping to himself. First, he had reason to believe Jon Arryn's death was no accident, as he'd claimed in Winterfell. Lord Arryn had seemingly been looking into King Robert's bastard children, before he'd fallen ill. Second, a Targaryen babe lived — across the world, and seemingly grew stronger every day. The Targaryens themselves had always been fantastical, in her mind. They were beautiful, strong — as if they'd fallen out of the history books themselves. King Robert wanted her dead, alongside her brother. Unsurprisingly, Eddard had argued with the men to no end — resulting in him stepping down from the title as hand.
Third, and most distressing — Catelyn had taken Lord Tyrion, accusing him of an attempt on her son's life. As word had it, the two were on their way to the Vale. The thought alone had terror running through Lyarra. The act itself was enough to create more tension between the Starks and the Lannisters — but to condemn Tyrion, of all? The man was a fool, and Lyarra hadn't known him for long. But she knew him well enough to know he'd never cause Bran harm. Lyarra's heart tugged as Eddard's voice began to shake. As his facade cracked, giving way to the scared man beneath it all. She hardly waited a second before making her way to his side, leaning to pull him against her.
The two rarely embraced, even in their childhood. It was only when the other was crying — or they knew more than anything, they needed one another. Her heart shattered at the thought of Ned shouldering it all alone. Catelyn's act was brash, but she was doing it for the sake of her family. She wasn't sure how long the two sat together, until Jory all but barged in — concern evident in the frown pulling across his face. Within an instant, Eddard jumped into action, packing his belongings into a chest.
"I'll go ahead with my daughters. You get them ready, do it yourself." He nodded to Jory, turning at once back to his work.
"Right away my Lord," Jory agreed, though he paused a moment longer, "Lord Baelish is here for you."
Ned halted in his motions, as Petyr flitted into the room. His gaze hovered on Lyarra for only a moment, as he took in the surprise of her presence.
"His grace went on about you at some length after you took your leave. The word "treason" was mentioned,"
"What can I do for you?"
"If you're still here before nightfall, I'll take you to see the last person Jon Arryn spoke with before falling ill, if that sort of thing still interests you." Petyr promised. He wore a mask of confidence, though Lyarra observed as his eyes flickered between Eddard and herself more than once. He wasn't taking her presence well, she could only assume.
"I don't have the time," Eddard argued, turning at once back to the chest. Petyr bowed then, only appearing disappointed for but a moment, though Lyarra knew better than to take his word as it was. Frustration built within her, as she recognized her own intentions in advance. She wanted to take the burden off of Eddard's shoulders. It'd appear this was the only way to do so.
"Ned, I'll go. You get the girls ready." He gaped at the suggestion, before she narrowed her eyes. He'd shared with her everything she needed to know, only moments prior. It was more common for her to be at Petyr's side than him, at the moment. Alongside that, it would reduce the risk of intensifying Robert's wrath. He hesitated only a moment longer before bidding her to continue. Just as she moved to take her leave, he grasped onto her shoulder. Eddard said nothing, though it was not necessary — as his stare alone carried the weight of his words. He still did not trust Petyr, not that she could doubt him at this point. She only squeezed his arm, before turning on her heel to retreat.
"She looks like him, don't she, my Lady? She has his nose, his black hair." The girl cooed, bouncing a babe in her arms. Petyr had taken Lyarra to his brothel, a fact that came as no surprise. On their journey, he hadn't said more than a word — though her appearance had seemingly not come as a shock to him. He only silently guided her into a room, shutting the door behind him. There in the center of the room, stood a girl — with a black-haired babe nestled against her.
"Aye," Lyarra rasped, her throat dry as she attempted to swallow. The sight flooded her with numerous emotions at once — with only more questions to meet them. Why had Jon Arryn come here, just before his death? What was so important about another bastard?
"Tell him when you see him, my Lady. If it please you, tell him how beautiful she is."
Lyarra could hardly bring herself to reply, before the girl continued.
"And tell him, I've been with no one else. I swear it, my Lady, by the old Gods and new. I don't want no jewels or nothing, just him. The King was always good to me.." Lyarra's heart burned with sympathy as she rambled on. She wanted more than anything to promise that the girl would be given everything and more, that she'd have a safe home for herself and her babe — that the King would give her one. Petyr met her gaze across the room, though he appeared more pleased than anything.
"When Jon Arryn came to visit you," She started, coming to realize she had yet to address her true purpose for her presence, "what did he want?"
"He wasn't that sort of man, my Lady. He just wanted to know if the child was happy, healthy."
Lyarra gulped, moving to gently lift the babe's hand. "She looks healthy to me. The girl shall want for nothing, I'll see to it myself."
She stepped out of the room quickly, Petyr quick on her heels. Lyarra felt as if she was forcing herself to move forward, as she harshly placed herself on one of the sofas. Petyr delicately took a seat at her side, tentatively reaching over — clasping one of her hands in his.
In an instant, she ripped herself out of his grasp — standing across from him, balling the lower half of her gown in her hands.
"Do you understand now, why you're here?" He inquired, all but ignoring her previous outburst. Lyarra let out a sharp laugh, one that was coated with hurt.
"What did Jon Arryn want with King Robert's bastards?"
"Perhaps, the King wanted them looked after. He was overcome with fatherly love. Or perhaps, Jon Arryn had another motive. How are we meant to understand the inner-workings of a dead man's brain?" Petyr added, as he moved to stare into Lyarra's eyes imploringly. He was waiting for a shoe to drop, for her to notice something she had yet to. Her own brow furrowed, as she stared back into his eyes — considering the information itself. The sound of footsteps broke the tension, as Lyarra stepped away — moving to the door.
"So, I take it this has changed nothing for you? You'll be leaving the capital, alongside your family?" Petyr called out just before she could reach the door. Lyarra paused in her motions, never once taking her gaze off of the handle before her.
"What would you have me do, Petyr?" She questioned bitterly, scowling ahead as her head came to fall.
"Stay. Here, in King's Landing. I have more than enough room for you. Stay, and learn the truth of it all — with me. You could be so much more," Lyarra finally turned then, her breath catching as she took in the sight before her. Petyr was disheveled, his eyes desperate — as he approached her, one step at a time. "Is this not what we always wanted? Everything we dreamt of is within our grasp. Are you willing to let it slip away?"
Lyarra almost allowed herself to lean into the illusion, to dream of what the two could have. Petyr had come to power almost unnoticeably. One could only imagine what else he was capable of — what the two could do, side by side. She stepped back then, and observed as Petyr's resolve crumbled. Within an instant, any hint of emotion faded from his gaze. A grin pulled across his lips, as he stepped further into her space.
"Are you willing to leave your Hound?"
For a moment, nothing could be heard but the sound of distant moans — ringing through the brothel. Lyarra let out a sharp breath through her nose, before she shot forward. Her palm made contact with his cheek before she could stop herself, the sound of the slap echoing through the room but a moment after. She did not allow herself the opportunity to do anything else, before she stomped out of the room — shooting one more look to the man, who now seemed to curl pathetically in on himself. Eddard, alongside Jory, met her at the door. He halted in his step as he noticed her expression, but she only waved him off — moving further out of the building.
Once they'd made their way outside, Lyarra was met with the sight of Lannister guards. More than she could count, as they circled the group. Eddard came to stand at her side, holding her back by the arm — as Jory lingered on their right. Just a moment later, Jaime Lannister came into view, riding his own horse. The sight of her had his head cocking, though only in the slightest. He seemed to hesitate, before moving to dismount.
"Such a small pack of wolves," He remarked, all the while never meeting Lyarra's stare. Jory stepped forward then, placing himself in front of the two Starks.
"Stay back, Ser. This is the hand of the King."
"Was the hand of the King. Now I'm not sure what he is. Lord of somewhere very far away." Jaime noted, never once moving from the side of his horse. Petyr came barreling out soon after, concern evident to those who did not look too closely.
"Get back inside where it's safe," Jaime requested, pausing then as he finally met Lyarra's eyes, "and take Lady Lyarra, while you're at it. This is no place for a woman,"
Lyarra moved to argue, but was quickly silenced as Eddard shot an arm out in front of her — pushing her behind him, and to Petyr's side. Jaime made his intentions clear then, stating that he was looking for his brother. News had traveled quicker than Eddard had expected, it'd seemed, as he recounted the tale she'd only been told earlier. Someone took Tyrion on the road, and Jaime wanted him back. Against her better judgement, Lyarra found herself clutching Petyr's sleeve. He moved closer to her, taking a hand in his as he had only moments prior.
"He was taken at my command to answer for his crimes." Eddard claimed, and at once Lyarra felt her heart drop. Of course, he would stop at nothing to protect his family. Before he could say anything else, Jaime unsheathed his blade — with the Lannister guards soon to follow.
"My lords," Petyr started, silenced only by a wave from Ned. The two shared a silent look, one that conveyed a message she could not understand. Petyr rushed forward then, taking Lyarra by the arm then to usher her inside. She shot a desperate look to Jaime, pleading with him silently to not do this — to not harm her brother. At once, his expression went blank, but he moved forward all the same.
"No, no. He's the hand of the King, you can't do this! Ser Jaime, please," She begged, her vision fading as Petyr all but dragged her back to the brothel. "Jaime, please don't do this!"
Once they were up the stairs, Petyr moved to hush her — taking her into his arms. She clutched his tunic, then, bringing it to her face as she fell apart in his hold. She could just barely make out the sound of blades clashing — the shouts of men following. Lyarra forced herself not to think of what could be happening in that moment. That her brother could have been slain, or Jory for that matter. That she'd have to make the journey to Winterfell alone, save for her nieces. Lyarra was not certain she could take much more loss. It was only when all sound ceased all together, that she pulled back.
Before Petyr could stop her, Lyarra took off — making quick work down the stairs, and back to the bloody scene. Jaime was back on his horse, with one Lannister guard at his side. He turned, taking in the sight of her with a blank look. He seemed to be turning words around in his head, before thinking better of it. He rode off quickly, the guards following behind him. She paused for only a moment as she scanned over the rubble. Each of Ned's men were dead, some with blades still sticking out of them. The sight was enough to have her stomach flipping — before she caught sight of something that had her frozen in place. She could hardly recognize her own screams, as she ran to her brother's side. Eddard was unconscious, with blood oozing from a gash on his leg. At his side, laid Jory — who'd been punctured through the eye.
From that moment on, Lyarra felt like a guest in her own body. She hardly recognized herself moving, as someone ushered her back inside. Hours later, Eddard had been placed in his quarters. Sweat coated his forehead, and the sight of him alone was enough to have Lyarra promptly keel over — clutching her stomach as a wave of nausea hit her. She spent that night at his side, curled in a wooden chair by his bed. He did not wake once, and similarly she could not find sleep. The only moment she was able to find rest, was when a rough rap came at the door. She'd told the Maesters to allow no one in, save for herself. She'd half expected Aianna to meet her at the door, before she was met with the sight of Sandor — whose expression was all but unreadable, as usual.
She had half the mind to shut the door on him then, tired of putting her trust in the wrong people — before he stepped in, shutting the door behind him as delicately as he could manage.
"It's alright, Little Wolf. I won't hurt you," He rasped, nodding to the man in bed, "Rest, I'll watch over you both." Lyarra paused for only a moment, before wobbling back to the seat beside Eddard's bed. The sound of Sandor bolting the door had her ears perking in the distance, but she didn't take note of much else. Sleep crept up before she knew it, overtaking her — as she leaned into Eddard's quilt. Distantly, she felt a weight placed on her — feeling vaguely of the familiar weight of her furs — but by then, she was too far gone to acknowledge it properly.
Okay, so. A LOT happened in this chapter. It was really dialogue heavy, and I apologize for that. But they have a lot to say alright ... 9k words oh my golly. Someone call the yapping police. So, let's work through this. We got through the tourney! And in turn got the hilarious moment of Ned thinking the rose was for him, instead of Lyarra. Varys is being.. strange. A good strange or bad strange though.. we don't know.
No one:
Varys: Be careful who you call oomf...
Speaking of. Have I made it clear how complicated her relationship is with Petyr yet? If not, I feel like her slapping him only to end up crying in his arms a minute later should have made that pretty obvious. She doesn't trust him, and yet she cares so much about him that it's hard to think about much else. How does he feel about her though?? We'll have to see.. He wants her at his side, but for what reason? Jaime, on the other hand, is so incredibly confused. Someone please help that man.
Anyways, I do have some things I want to say here. One, Lyarra does not know the true extent of the fight that broke out between Brandon and Petyr. She only knows that it was enough to have Petyr sent back to the Fingers. Two, Lyarra does not know literally anything! Ever! She only learns of the whole 'Bastard Scandal' by the end of the chapter basically. So she's very emotional throughout the whole second half of the chapter.
The south is no place for a wolf, Lyarra had come to realize. The moment that she had been advised to remove her furs, she began to take note of her own regret. Without them, she felt bare — open for all to see. She replaced them with clothing more suitable for the weather, but in doing so she had to remove her leather trousers as well. Thus, she'd had no choice but to remain on the carriage for the remainder of the journey — as riding her horse with a dress would have been all but impossible.
In all, the move was not the worst thing. She placed herself between her nieces, who still did all they could to avoid even looking at the other. Septa Mordane looked over her pleadingly, but Lyarra could not do much more than shrug. She had never met a pair more stubborn than the girls beside her. It almost reminded her of her own sister. She and Lyanna hardly fought, but when they did they would not speak to one another for days. Lyarra reached out to rub Arya's shoulder, who had only tensed at the touch.
Their arrival at King's Landing had become apparent by the foul scent that rushed through their noses. Winterfell did not often smell pleasant, as Lyarra was sure most cities did not, but it failed to rival to this. She contained her disgust with a grimace, leaning back only to cover her nose with her sleeve, as imperceptibly as she could. Arya, however, made no such move to contain it. She gagged loudly, to Septa Mordane's dismay. As the carriage came to a stop, Lyarra watched as her brother dismounted his horse. Jory followed suit, holding the reins of both his own horse, and Lyarra's. Frost bristled at his touch, but seemed to calm as he ran his gloved hand through the horse's mane.
"Welcome, Lord Stark." A voice declared, as a man approached Ned. As her brother took charge, Lyarra allowed herself to glance over the scenery. This was the furthest South she'd ever been. With each growing moment, she could only think of Brandon. How far had he and her father made it? The gory details had never been shared with her. Had he stood where she was now?
"Get the girls settled, I'll be back in time for supper." Eddard called out then, interrupting Lyarra's thoughts. In an instant, she was standing on her own two feet — brushing her dress down with haste. Ned met her gaze, nodding with resoluteness — a fact that comforted her only slightly. Jory guided the girls to their rooms, and only paused once Arya and Sansa had filed in. Septa Mordane followed quickly after the two, though she only lingered in Sansa's company.
"My lady?" Jory questioned, tilting his head to point in another direction. Lyarra nodded herself, and within a moment followed a step after him. Jory had been beside her family for years now, longer than she could properly recall. The two had only spoke to one another a handful of times, but she cherished the man for how he took care of the girls. They were silent as they came upon a wooden door — further from her niece's rooms than she would have liked. In an instant, Jory was gone — turning on his heel to head back towards the Stark Girls. As Lyarra entered the room, taking in the decor — she found herself once again longing to return home.
The quilt was thinner than she was used to, though she could not deny its comfort. In the corner stood a large stone window, with flowers littering the sides. It was a beautiful room, all things considered, and yet she felt more discomfort than she had in years. Before she could do much else, she was interrupted by a harsh rap at the door. Instantly, she relaxed. Eddard's presence would make the move easier. Only, as Lyarra swung open the door — she wasn't met with the solemn expression of her brother. Instead, a woman with dark hair and warm, tan skin — stood there, hands clasped with a timid smile. She couldn't help but furrow her brow at the sight.
"Forgive me, my Lady. I did not mean to disturb you. I am to be your new handmaid. I thought it best to assist you in unpacking your belongings now, seeing as you just arrived." All the while, the girl did not raise her head — nor meet her eyes properly. The handmaidens in Winterfell were often shy, so it was not an entirely surprising sight — and yet she could not help her own frown. Lyarra ushered the girl in, clasping onto her arm comfortingly. She did her best to ignore how the girl had startled, and only moved to shut the door.
"What is your name, my dear?" Lyarra questioned, moving back to stand in front of the girl. Again, she startled — though, she met her gaze at once. She seemed confused, as if no one had ever addressed her properly, or had spoken to her for this long.
"Aianna, my Lady." The girl, Aianna, amended. Though she still appeared bewildered, she had seemed to relax in the slightest — her shoulders dropping almost unnoticeably. Lyarra nodded then, taking in the information.
"Please, call me Lyarra. I'd much rather us be friends." Lyarra claimed, grasping onto Aianna's hands delicately. The girl tensed, but nodded all the same — a shy smile creeping onto her features.
She'd spent the remaining hours of daylight alongside Aianna, as she begrudgingly allowed the girl to unpack her belongings. Lyarra was more than capable of the task herself, but she would not take no for an answer. In their time together, she'd learned only a handful of things about Aianna. She had only just turned Twenty the fortnight prior, though she seemingly did not remember much of her life before the Keep. She'd poured the girl a glass of wine instantly, though she'd been unsurprisingly turned down. Aianna did not seem to enjoy speaking about herself, but that did nothing to dissuade Lyarra. Once the sun began to sink below the peaks of the city, she'd requested that Aianna escort her to her nieces. The inquiry had given the girl pause, as if she'd never been asked such a thing before, but she complied all the same. As Aianna bid her farewell, Lyarra entered the room.
Unsurprisingly, the girls were arguing — while Septa Mordane did her best to interrupt the two, though they paid her no mind. Arya was stabbing the table with her knife, as Sansa complained.
"He's a liar and a coward, and he killed my friend!" Arya exclaimed, all the while poking at the wooden table with her knife. Once her presence had been noted by the Septa, the woman once again gazed at her pleadingly. Lyarra took a breath, meaning to step in — before she'd been interrupted by Sansa herself.
"The Hound killed your friend," Sansa argued, narrowing her eyes at Arya's outburst. Lyarra couldn't help by sympathize with both of the girls. Sansa was only doing what she thought best. She couldn't argue with the Prince, even to defend her sister. While Arya was mourning the loss of her friend, and wasn't wrong in doing so.
"The hound does whatever the Prince tells him to," Arya continued, her voice rising in aggravation. She couldn't help but agree with her niece, at that. Sandor was responsible for killing Mycah, but it was not an action of his own volition. She winced at the name they'd bestowed upon him more than once, but did nothing to argue against it.
"You're an idiot," Sansa stated, finality ringing in her voice. Lyarra stepped forwards as Arya continued to argue, and the two startled at her appearance. Within a moment, the two were pleading with her to 'shut the other one up', which only caused her to pinch the bridge of her nose. As the two girls continued, another voice rang out.
"What's happening here?" Eddard questioned as he stepped into the room. Lyarra continued her movement until she was sitting at Sansa's side, clasping onto her arm comfortingly. Sansa glanced over at her, her lip slightly quivering. Arya had made her way across the room, intending on fleeing before she noticed her father. Septa Mordane had gone to chime in then, before Lyarra beat her to it. She was in no mood to hear any of the woman's complaints.
"What do you think, Ned? The girls are upset." She grumbled, doing her best to keep any venom out of her words. She was there to care for her nieces, not start fights with her brother. Eddard furrowed his brow, stepping forward to address his youngest daughter.
"Go to your room, we'll speak later." With that, Arya nodded and exited the room promptly. Sansa seemed to deflate with her absence, a silent sigh of relief leaving her in a wave. Though Lyarra could not fault her for her feelings, her heart dropped at the sight. She took her own seat, then, observing as Ned placed a gift in front of Sansa.
Inside the wrappings laid a doll, with strings of red hair. The sight almost brought a laugh to her lips, before she contained it with a swig of wine. Ned knew nothing of how to raise daughters, but he was trying all the same. Though she found the gift itself humorous, something that was only strengthened by Sansa's disgusted reaction — the act itself filled Lyarra with warmth. Their father, Lord Rickard Stark, had never given her a gift of any kind. He was not a cruel father, but he was not often present. After the death of their mother, she rarely saw him — beyond important occasions. She found herself reaching out to grab the doll, passing it between her hands. As Sansa stood to leave, Septa Mordane was quick to follow.
"War is easier than daughters." Ned claimed, rubbing his temple as he spoke. Lyarra couldn't help but nod, still holding the doll in her palm — as she thought of her own daughter. As a child, Reyne had been particularly difficult to wrangle. She had Tormund's energy, though she'd never met the boy. Her ferociousness was a mirror image of his. That on its own was trouble enough. Lyarra placed the doll back on the table, handing it off to Ned once more. As she stood, meaning to follow after Arya, he raised his hand — bidding her to take her seat.
"If you wouldn't mind, I'd enjoy supping with family." He requested, his voice only wavering at the end — giving way to his desperation. Lyarra had been so caught up in her own discomfort, that she hadn't paused to think of her brother. He was just as out of place as she was. Lyarra nodded in an instant, taking her own plate of food as she sat to listen to Ned's description of his first small council meeting. The King intended for another Tourney, one that they didn't have the coin to pay for. The thought gave Lyarra pause. She'd only been to one tourney in her life, and while the event itself had been almost enjoyable — what came after was not. She couldn't help but think of Sandor, then. Would he be participating in the tourney, now that he was in a higher position? He was no Knight, but he was the Prince's bodyguard. She mulled the thought over in her mind, before she was met with the expectant glance of her brother.
"I'm sorry, Ned. What did you say?" She questioned, mentally kicking herself for being so distracted. Eddard only huffed out a laugh as he repeated himself. He'd been naming those present at the small council. Renly Baratheon, brother of the King — Grand Maester Pycelle, Lord Varys — whom Ned had described as 'The Spider', and just as he'd gone to continue, he paused. One look at the man gave way for the hesitation underneath. Ned did not want to name whomever the last member was. After a moment, he took a breath, wringing his hands with a cloth.
"And Lord Petyr Baelish," He continued, eyeing Lyarra warily. In an instant, her gut plummeted. Petyr was here, in King's Landing. Ned had seen him, spoken with him. She had half the mind to consider her brother's hesitation, before she was on her feet. Eddard met her instantly, raising his arm to halt her motions.
"Lyarra, it's the middle of the night. Please, just rest. I'll take you to him in the morning." He pleaded, and Lyarra saw then what he had been doing his best to hide. He was afraid. For some reason, Ned did not trust Petyr. He didn't want her near him. Lyarra took a breath before she nodded, agreeing to wait — against her better judgment. Eddard relaxed, at that. The walk to her quarters felt longer now that she had such a weight on her shoulders. Just before she'd reached the door, she noticed the figure ahead of her. Sandor was just passing out of view, before she called out for him, calling him directly by his name. He'd only paused at first, turning after what felt like hours.
Just as he had gone to speak, another voice rang out — the familiar bitter tone of the prince. Sandor only glanced over her once more, the calm of his expression replaced by an aggravated scowl, before he followed after the voice. Lyarra took no longer than another moment before she entered her own quarters, harshly throwing herself on top of her quilts. The Prince and his party had traveled ahead, after what had happened at the Inn. Thus, she hadn't spoken to Sandor in weeks. She could just vaguely remember his words from the night before his departure. 'I'll keep you safe, Little Wolf', he'd promised. How was he meant to protect her when the two could not even be near one another?
The following morning, Aianna had been the one to wake her. She'd dressed her in traditional Southern clothing, braided her hair in a style reminiscent of the ladies of the court. Aianna had ensured that she looked 'beautiful', but when Eddard met her at the door — and nearly stumbled backwards out of shock, any shred of confidence fled from her. She felt as if she were donning another woman's skin.
True to his word, Ned appeared just as he said he would — with the intention of bringing her to Petyr. Leaving the Red Keep was more uncomfortable than Lyarra would have expected. The moment they were on the streets of the city, tension rose within her. Eddard guided her up a series of steps, with Jory quick on their heel. They only stopped once they reached a small room, a comfortable one at that — with sofas and chairs littered about. Red curtains were strewn across the windows, giving way for a warm feeling within the room. Lyarra realized then where they were. She'd never been to a Brothel herself, but she'd heard numerous descriptions of the buildings from both Theon and Tyrion. As she turned to question her brother, she was met with an almost unfamiliar face. The man before her was sharp, tall and thin — with long features. Lyarra paused, taking him in. It was undeniable who the man before her was, and yet he seemed so different from the boy she'd known all too well.
Lyarra did not give herself the opportunity to speak, and instead launched herself into the arms of Petyr Baelish. The first thing she'd noticed is his hesitation. It took him a beat before he wrapped his own arms around her, and even then it seemed an unusual motion for him. Dread built within her, as she forced herself to hug him tighter. She'd remembered then, all of what had happened. The boy had never answered her letters — had never even attempted to send his own, to her knowledge. As important as he was to her, she realized then how insignificant she might have been in his life. They'd only known one another as children, and even then it had been for weeks alone. As she reluctantly pulled back to face him, she was met with only an intense stare. Lyarra searched within his familiar eyes for some sort of sign of how he was feeling. It was then, that she realized her brother had slunk from the room — leaving the two alone. Petyr, as if sensing her thoughts as he had before, clutched her hand — bringing it to his heart.
"My dear, Lyarra Stark. I thought I'd never see your face again." He rasped, age evident within his voice. She'd almost let out a sigh of relief at hearing his familiar tone, before she collected herself.
"I could say the same for you, Lord Baelish." Lyarra parried, a mixture of mockery and admiration coating her words. However, unlike he had in the past, Petyr stood taller at her words — chin raising in his own mix of pride. Not that she could blame him. He had done exactly as he'd set out to do, he'd risen in the ranks until he worked directly under the King. She couldn't hold back the pride that blossomed within her, at the thought.
"Please, call me Petyr. I dread the sound of such formalities, especially from the lips of a friend." Though he carried a level of confidence with him, the last few words were painted as more of a question than anything — as if he was ensure of his place in her heart. Lyarra only flipped her hand, squeezing his with fervor. The man before her was a mystery, that much was clear. He was not the boy that she'd cherished as a child, and yet she couldn't help the way her heart longed for him.
"Now, Petyr, you must tell me of how a boy from the Fingers became the Master of Coin to King Robert Baratheon," She requested, taking a seat then — all the while pulling the man to sit beside her. His movements were delicate, wary in an unfamiliar way. Lyarra did her best to ignore it, as he began to spin his tale. She was unaware of how much time passed, reminiscent of their nights in Riverrun. The two sat side by side, telling one another of their lives up until that moment. Petyr was not just the Master of Coin, but also the head of the most successful brothel in the city. The younger version of himself would struggle to recognize him now, she couldn't help but think. Throughout their talks, Lyarra was quick to avoid the topic of her own letters. She didn't want to broach a sore topic, or worse — discover that he had been ignoring her ravens as it was.
She was reluctant to say goodbye, as if she were afraid of losing the man all over again. And yet she did so all the same, kissing his cheek as she went. He quickly requested for her to return again, once she had the chance. After that, she took to visiting every few days — when she was sure he wouldn't be busy, with the Small Council or any other task. More than once, she'd met Lord Varys on his way out. The man's features were unique — with a bald head, and long robes. Each time, he would shoot her a wary, though not unkind, grin, before making his way back to the Red Keep, no doubt. Lyarra couldn't help but wonder what the two discussed, though she never outwardly questioned him.
However, Lyarra couldn't help but question Petyr on the other happenings of the city. As children, the two would share everything with one another. Lyarra knew of every minor event that took place within Riverrun, solely because of how well Petyr was able to gather information. Only, he seemed reluctant to share his findings with her in King's Landing. Outwardly, this fact was not clear. Petyr Baelish's secrecy was impressive, and the blind eye would not notice the way he bit his tongue. Lyarra held no blind eye, however, and she knew the man well enough to tell he was not being forthright with what he knew. She did not allow that to give her pause, and instead she did her best to ignore it. It would do her no good, questioning him, after she spent years longing to return to his side.
When she wasn't with Petyr, Lyarra was observing Arya's training. Unbeknownst to her, Jon had a blade made for Arya before they'd left Winterfell. A thin blade, with a thick handle — one that she had named 'Needle.' Through their previous training, Arya had never been permitted to learn with a steel blade. It was only when she began her 'Dancing' lessons, that she was allowed to use her new sword, something that almost had Lyarra's chest blossoming with pride. More than once, Lyarra had been asked to assist with her teachings. She was not accustomed to the style itself, but she knew how to hold a blade. Sansa, however, was more often than not searching after the royal family. She stayed at Septa Mordane's side, often sewing — or tending to something more ladylike than Lyarra had come to know.
Lyarra spent her nights in her brother's study, as the two poured over the work he'd been tending to. In truth, she'd rather have been anywhere else — but being by Eddard's side brought her more comfort than anything. More than once, she'd caught Sandor making his way through the halls as she'd left. Each time, the two would only share a few words, before he was forced to go chasing after the Prince. One night, in particular, he'd been posted at the end of a long hallway — noticeable only due to the torch hanging by his side, lighting up the unburnt side of his face.
"Stalking the halls are you, Little Wolf?" He'd called after her, a light smirk only noticeable by the slight curve of his cheek. Lyarra couldn't help her own snort in return, as she made her way to him.
"Aren't you meant to be tending after the Prince?" She'd questioned in response, raising a brow as the man seemed to tense. He only shook his head, glancing over towards a set of stairs. More than once, she'd seen him retreat up them — which allowed only one explanation, they lead to the Prince's quarters.
"The King relieved me of my duty for the night. Said he'll be tending to the Prince for now." He grunted, the gruffness of his tone coating any emotion he might have felt. Lyarra only paused for a moment, before she nodded in understanding. Robert, though he'd often sympathized with Ned over his own family, did not have a kind heart. Especially with his Wife and children. Lyarra could only assume that another fight had broken out. As she took in the information, she glanced back towards the direction of her own quarters.
"Would you care for a drink, then?" Lyarra asked after a moment, fidgeting with her hands as the silence crept on. Sandor seemed to observe her for a minute, before nodding himself. If the two lacked a common ground anywhere else, they found one with drinking. She found the act frighteningly familiar, as his heavy footsteps thudded after her own — the chain of his armor clinking behind her. Sandor stood at the entrance for only a moment, taking in his surroundings — before he all but threw himself down on a wooden chair.
Once their drinks were poured, Lyarra took a seat across from him. Not unusually, the two were silent for most of the night. Had it been anyone else, she was certain it would be discomforting. However, the silence that transpired between the two had always been a comfortable one. She took the chance, then, to look over him. In the light spewing in from the moon, the right half of Sandor's face was clearer than ever. Though the burn marred a good portion of his features, she couldn't see what was so 'monstrous' about the man. Why so many feared him. Why the women of the Red Keep would whisper behind him, and flee at his gaze. In the light of the moon, Sandor was just a man — with dark eyes, and a perpetual pout. After another moment of looking him over, Lyarra came to a sudden realization that the eyes she'd been staring into, were now staring back at her. His expression was a mix of distrust and confusion, mirroring what it had been the day of the tourney all those years ago.
Lyarra moved then, whether to defend herself or apologize she did not know, but she was cut off by a harsh slam of Sandor's mug — and in a blink, the man was gone. She couldn't do much more than take a breath, in that moment. The two were not friends, by any stretch of the word, but she did value the man's company. He'd become a familiar presence in her life. Lyarra could only hope, then, that she hadn't scared the man off properly.
The following morning, Lyarra made her journey to the brothel as she normally would have. Jory had long since stopped accompanying her, and rather his presence had been replaced by one of the Lannister guards. It was not safe for her to travel through the streets on her own, they'd claimed. By the time she made it to the brothel, the sun had reached its peak. The first thing she noticed as she entered the building, was shouting — a voice loud enough that she could hear it from the bottom of the approaching steps.
"You take me for some back-alley Sally you can drag to a..." The voice trailed off as Lyarra threw open the door, stepping into the small room. She came to realize then that the shouting had been coming from her sister-by-law, Catelyn Stark. Her presence gave Lyarra pause, as she considered what it could mean. Robb must be watching over Bran in Winterfell then, she thought, unless he'd made his recovery already. Beside Catelyn, Ser Rodrik bristled at the sight of her — though he said nothing himself.
"Cat," She breathed, rushing to embrace the woman before her. She'd never been so happy to see the red-head in all her life. Catelyn returned the hug after a moment, though she stepped away just as quickly. She was tense, and still glaring holes into Petyr. Lyarra could only turn to the man in confusion, before pausing at his expression. To all eyes other than her own, the man appeared surprised — unexpecting of Lyarra's own arrival. She, however, knew better. Petyr was counting on her appearance, though for what reason she was not certain.
"I meant no disrespect to you, of all people." Petyr stated, stepping forward while he raised his arms. Catelyn only let out a disbelieving scoff, crossing her arms indignantly.
"How dare you bring me here! Have you lost your mind?" Catelyn exclaimed, stepping forward herself to argue further. Lyarra willed her mind to collect itself, but she couldn't control the speed it was moving.
Petyr continued to defend himself, arguing that she'd be safe here — that no one would come looking for her. Lyarra could not do much more than grab Catelyn's arm, rubbing her thumb along the side of it comfortingly. The woman beside her had paused, at that, eyes wide as she took in the knowledge that Lyarra trusted the man before them. Their stare was only broken by the voice of another man ringing out.
"Lady Stark," The man, Varys, called out as he stepped into the room. He paused then as he looked over Lyarra, though he did not look entirely surprised by her presence either. "Lady Lyarra," He addressed her, nodding in her direction as well.
"To see you again after so many years is a blessing. Your poor hands," He remarked, reaching for Catelyn's hands — which Lyarra had only then realized were covered in cloth. She shot her sister-by-law a questioning look, but was only met with a sharp shake of Catelyn's head. She'd question it later, then.
"How did you know she was coming?" Lyarra questioned, disbelief rising in her tone. As she turned back to glance at Petyr, she was met with an almost amused expression — though he swallowed it down just as quickly, giving way to his usual coy grin.
"Knowledge is my trade, my lady. A fact that I'd assumed you'd know quite well, seeing as you spend your days with Lord Baelish." Varys stated, his blank expression never swiping from his face — despite the bite of his words. Lyarra was only further confused by his argument, but stepped back as the two beside her continued to speak between themselves.
"Did you bring the dagger with you, by any chance?" As Catelyn glanced at Ser Rodrik questioningly, Lyarra could not do much more than shift the balance of her feet.
"My little birds are everywhere, even in the North." Varys amended, as silence had stretched throughout the room. Catelyn nodded to Ser Rodrik, permitting him to unsheathe what Lyarra could only assume was the dagger they'd been speaking of before. With another glance to Petyr, who had not moved a muscle, she continued watching the scene unfold. After a beat, the dagger was placed in Varys' hands, who quickly examined in the blade.
"Valyrian steel," He remarked, seemingly marveling over the sight.
"Do you know whose dagger this is?" Catelyn continued, exhaustion clear within her tone. She was here for one reason alone, and would not allow the conversation to carry on unnecessarily. Varys hummed, pressing the dagger to the tip of his finger.
"I must admit I do not," Varys announced, though he glanced over Catelyn's shoulder to meet Peter's gaze. He appeared solemn, resigned as he considered his own words. Petyr, however, seemed almost giddy.
"Well, well, this is an historic day. Something you don't know, that I do." Lyarra whipped around, looking over Petyr in confusion. He met her gaze for only a moment, his smile falling in just the slightest — before he carried on, taking the dagger into his own hands.
"There's only one dagger like this in all of the Seven Kingdoms. It's mine," He declared, his grin only widening at Catelyn's confusion. "At least it was, until the tournament on Prince Joffrey's last nameday."
"I bet on Ser Jaime in the jousting, as any sane man would," He continued, all the while avoiding Lyarra's questioning gaze, "When the Knight of the Flowers unseated him, I lost this dagger."
"To whom?"
"Tyrion Lannister. The Imp." Petyr stated with finality. The words seemed to shoot horror through the woman beside her. At that, a dam broke within Lyarra. She'd had enough of dancing around her own confusion. She said as much, only pausing when Catelyn's own devastated expression became too pronounced.
"Only a few nights after you left, Winterfell was attacked," Catelyn explained, her words sending a spike of terror into her heart. "An assassin came in the night, with this dagger — to make quick work of my boy. To kill Bran."
She broke free from her terror to glance at Petyr, whose grin had not dropped. His expression only faltered when he met Lyarra's gaze, but he seemed to correct himself just as quickly.
"I am sorry for what you have been through, Catelyn, I am. But I know Lord Tyrion. He would never cause Bran harm, let alone make an attempt on his life." Lyarra claimed, grasping onto her hands with determination. Catelyn's mind had been made, however, and she did not meet her eyes.
"How well can you know a Lannister, truly?" Petyr chimed in, his eyes boring into Lyarra's almost pleadingly. He wanted her to agree with him, to back up his story — take his side against Tyrion. The thought had her stomach churning. She wanted more than anything to blindly take Petyr's side, as she would have years ago. And yet in that moment she couldn't bring herself to do much more than gape at the man.
Varys left only a moment after, taking one more glance over at the dagger — before meeting Lyarra with an uneasy look. Petyr followed suit, stating that Catelyn should stay as long as she saw fit. Lyarra sat by her for the rest of the morning, mostly in silence — though she'd asked after her daughters more than once. In return, Lyarra had asked about Reyne. The girl had still not left Bran's side, she'd learned, even standing in front of a blade to defend him. The thought had her melting with pride and fear in equal measure.
Not long after, Eddard's voice rang through the building. Catelyn followed the sound quickly, peaking her head over the balcony to call after him. Lyarra followed suit, observing as he crowded Petyr against the wall — clasping a hand around his throat. The sight had Lyarra reeling, but he removed the pressure before she could say anything. Before Ned had made it up the stairs, she'd already stepped into another room — intent on giving the couple their privacy. Eddard, in his years since Brandon's death, did not shy away from his love for his wife. The two had more adoration for one another than Lyarra would have expected, and the sight of their love was enough to have her heart swelling.
After another moment, Petyr stepped into the — -- almost silently placing himself at her side. She only looked over in his direction, before allowing her head to drop to his side — resting herself on his shoulder. Years prior the action would have seemed humorous, as he stood just below her in height — but now, he only slightly stood over her. After what had occurred earlier, Lyarra knew better than ever that she had no reason to trust the man at her side. That he'd changed into something she could hardly recognize. And yet, she couldn't help but think back to the pleading look in his eyes. He wanted her to trust him, to stay by his side. Against her better judgement, Lyarra continued to settle into his side — leaning further into him, as he hesitantly placed a hand on her shoulder.
Despite how much the man had changed, she knew one thing to be true. In Petyr's heart, love for Catelyn still lingered. That much had remained clear, as he'd ensured her safety within the Capital. Much to Eddard's chagrin, she imagined, his love for her had not faltered. Lyarra couldn't help the bitter feeling that swept through her, though she did her best to swallow it down.
Catelyn bid her farewell not long after, with Ned following in her wake. She'd pulled her aside, into another one of the brothel's many rooms — whispering under her breath.
"Listen to me, Lyarra. Petyr is not to be trusted. He is no longer the boy that you or I knew as children." She claimed, only grabbing onto Lyarra's hands with more passion as she'd attempted to pull away.
"He would never hurt me, Cat. I understand he may have changed, but that much is true as ever," Lyarra argued, bending her knees to look into Catelyn's eyes properly. The woman before her stood taller, shaking her head at Lyarra's words.
"He may not directly cause you harm, but is it any better if he seeks to hurt those around you?" She continued, imploring Lyarra with her gaze. Her words gave her pause, as she took them in properly.
"And yet you trust him well enough to take his word against Lord Tyrion?" Lyarra questioned, willfully ignoring the guilt churning within her.
"I trust his word over the Lannisters, that is all." With that, Catelyn was gone. Lyarra stood there for only a moment longer, before creeping back to the main room. Petyr met her solemn expression questioningly, but she only waved him off. The path back to the keep was dark by the time she'd left, and she almost kicked herself for not waiting for Eddard. As she approached her door, she was met with a familiar face. There, standing a few feet from her door — was Sandor, a bottle of wine in hand. His brow furrowed at her expression, as Petyr's had, but she waved him off similarly — opening the door in one quick motion. He filed in after her, pouring her a drink alongside his own. Just as before, he did not speak more than once throughout the night. Lyarra, however, did not allow that to dissuade her — and rambled through the hours to come.
As Eddard passed by her quarters to bid her a good night, he paused at the sound of raucous laughter from within. For half a moment he'd waved it off, expecting it to be Petyr Baelish. However, the gruff chuckle he'd heard had not been anything close to a noise that Littlefinger could have made. This noise was deeper, more genuine. Just as quickly as he'd heard it, the sound ceased entirely. Eddard pinched the bridge of his nose as his mind wandered, questioning what his sister could have involved herself in now.
Well. There's that. We introduced another character, and got a reunion! How great is that. Woo. So, a few thoughts. One, I love Aianna. I have decided to cast her with Angel Coulby (who plays Gwen in Merlin. So. Yes. Morgwen content) She's just a girl. Two, Catelyn's relationship may seem a bit different from her dynamic with Petyr in the show but that is very much intentional. In my writing, Catelyn does not have the same trust for him that she did in the show. Instead, Lyarra takes up that position. (Though she is obv very conflicted) Three, Sandor's characterization may seem a bit different from how he is typically portrayed, but that is also intentional? For one, the two knew one another as kids (sort of) and even then Lyarra never shied away from him. And also, Sandor is not the grump that a lot of people portray him as?? Within the first two episodes he literally laughs with Tyrion and tries to talk to Sansa. I feel like he becomes a lot more standoffish after everything that happens with Ned later on in the season, which isn't something that I see a lot of people taking note of.
I think those are my main points for now.. Just know that I have a lot planned. As always, feel free to leave any comment below
warning: animal death described towards the end of the chapter!
With a harsh 'bang', Lyarra woke in a rush. As her eyes peeled open, she came to realize that she wasn't nestled in her bed. Instead, she was surrounded by dogs. At her side, laid Tyrion Lannister — who seemed to be using one of the shaggier beasts as a pillow. The two had been drinking through the night, no doubt. She didn't quite remember why the two ended up in the kennels, but she could vaguely recall Tyrion making some sort of joke about 'Hounds'. Lyarra rubbed her eyes, bleary as she forced herself up. She only then took notice of the man in front of her.
There, Sandor stood with a grimace bordering on a smirk. Lyarra could only imagine how she looked at that moment. Disheveled, grimy. Far from the appearance expected of a lady. He only waited another moment before extending his armored hand. She glanced over him before clutching onto it, allowing him to pull her up arduously. She quickly brushed herself off, moving to thank the man — before she noticed the Prince approaching in the distance.
"Go on, I'll handle the little lord." Sandor grunted, nodding towards the door for her to make her escape. Lyarra sent him a gracious nod, before moving in the opposite direction of Joffrey.
Since Eddard notified her of their coming departure, Lyarra hadn't had much of an opportunity to speak with the royal family. Joffrey, in particular, had evaded her — not that she was disappointed by that fact. Rather, she was grateful to avoid more Lannisters. Or, Baratheons, she supposed. The only Lannister she sought to speak with, beyond Tyrion, had been impossible to find, it seemed. At each opportunity, Jaime Lannister snuck away from her — as if he was frightened of being seen with her. She hadn't expected the two to be close, after all of these years, but seeing the man avoid her as he had struck Lyarra with a cold feeling. She'd had half the mind to mention it to Tyrion, before thinking better of it.
As she exited her quarters, this time properly prepared — with her hair braided and held high, and white furs pulled tightly around herself — Lyarra made the familiar journey to Bran's room. She'd spent most of her nights there, since the boy had been injured. Reyne had been assigned as his caretaker for the time being, meaning Sansa was given a new handmaiden. As the door cracked open, Lyarra peaked through. There, sat Catelyn — who'd been sewing something that she didn't dare question. Reyne was by her side, brushing Bran's hair from his face with the back of her hand.
"How is he?" She questioned softly, delicately trying to not disturb the peace within the room. Catelyn didn't acknowledge her, and only tilted her head as she considered the words.
"They say that if he makes it through the night, he'll live." Her voice was raspy, straining with the lack of use. Lyarra nodded, settling herself in the seat beside Reyne. She reached to clasp Catelyn's free hand, squeezing it with all of the energy she could muster. Her sister-by-law sent her a grateful smile, moving as if she meant to speak — before the two were interrupted by the harsh creek of a door being opened. Cersei Lannister made her way inside, and Catelyn was on her feet within seconds. Lyarra herself hadn't moved, nor had Reyne — a fact that had the Queen shoot them an almost imperceptible glare.
"Please," Cersei amended, nodding to Catelyn to take her seat. The woman in question only ruffled her clothing, hands grasping at anything she could find to make herself appear less disheveled.
"I would have dressed, Your Grace."
"This is your home. I'm your guest."
"You must forgive us for the state of things, Your Grace. The last few days have been rather difficult." Lyarra remarked, brushing her fingers through the furs that covered Bran.
Cersei didn't acknowledge that she'd spoke, and instead moved further towards the boy in bed. She began telling a story of her own, describing the death of her first son. The tale had Lyarra's heart pang with sympathy, something that she'd been surprised to feel for the Queen. As she continued to recount the story, Lyarra reached to grasp onto Reyne's hand, rubbing her thumb along her knuckles. Cersei extended prayers to Catelyn, before she turned to Lyarra.
"Do you have children of your own?" The question held no malice, yet Lyarra observed as Cersei's gaze turned sharp. Tears were still brimming within the eyes of the Queen. Lyarra willed herself to take a breath, before turning to Reyne.
"Not of my own blood, but yes." She admitted, continuing to rub the girl's hand. Reyne hadn't looked away from Bran once, but Lyarra noticed her startle at the question all the same.
"I extend my prayers to you as well, then. No mother should be separated from their children, by death or distance alike." With that, Cersei exited the room — sucking the air out with her. The remaining women within the room were silent, processing her words. They were only disturbed when Maester Luwin entered the room, raising a brow at their solemn expressions.
Though she'd been searching relentlessly for the boy, Jon seemed to be a step ahead of her everywhere she went. She'd gone to the blacksmith, and instead learned he'd been there just minutes prior. She'd gone to find Arya, just to be told that Jon had just left her side. She'd even peaked her head into Bran's room, only for Catelyn to tell her with a grimace that he'd only just left.
When she finally caught him, he had been making his way through the courtyard with a sack of his belongings. Lyarra's own attempts to pack evaded her. Usually, she would have asked Reyne to do so — but since Bran had yet to wake, Reyne was charged with staying by his side in Winterfell. As such, she wouldn't be able to make the journey to King's Landing. Lyarra came to realize with a sinking feeling, that she'd be saying goodbye to both of her children on the same day.
She watched as Robb and Jon made their way through the yard, sharing words between themselves. She chose to make her approach then, placing an hand on Robb — as he turned to acknowledge her presence.
"Next time we see him, he'll be all in black." Robb laughed, shaking the boy with his free arm. Lyarra tried her hardest to force a smile to her lips, but she was sure she'd failed when the two boys winced.
"It was always my color." Jon joked, his laugh coming out more forced than anything. The two boys brought one another close again, muttering words imperceptible to the common ear. As they pulled away, Robb gave her a significant look — stepping away then to chase after one of his siblings. Lyarra took a breath as she tightened her jaw. She'd be riding alongside Eddard to bid Jon farewell properly, once the road forked. But she'd realized now, that this could be her last chance to hold him close.
Jon met her halfway, matching her fervor as he wrapped his arms around her. She buried herself in his neck, with a face full of fur. Lyarra wasn't certain how long the two sat like that, wrapped in one another. He'd pulled away after another moment, with an expression of steel — save for his quivering lip. She only stepped away once she noticed a blonde mop of hair approaching, her hands clasped timidly. Just as he had with Lyarra, Jon pulled Reyne to him. Lyarra couldn't help but join their embrace, kissing their foreheads in tandem.
"You'll come back, won't you? We'll all see each other again?" Reyne questioned, her voice hardly higher than a whisper. Lyarra's heart plummeted at the inquiry, and she could hardly hold back the tears that threatened to break free. It was all so similar to the last time she'd seen Brandon. When he promised her he'd return, holding her close as he whispered things that would never come to pass. Lyarra did not want to make false promises, as he had. But as she saw the girl's composure threaten to break, she forced herself to nod — clasping onto Jon's furs as she spoke.
"We'll all see one another again." Lyarra repeated, pressing another kiss to Reyne's temple as Jon pulled away. He mounted his horse then, peeling off with another look in Reyne's direction. The girl's sniffles were becoming more noticeable by the minute, though Lyarra did her best to not take note of them.
"Take care of the boys, alright? Don't leave their side. They'll need you, as you'll need them." Reyne nodded repeatedly, as if she was no longer in true control of her actions. Lyarra ran her hands down the girl's arm in what she could only hope was a comforting motion. "You're a Stark, through and through. Never forget that, Reyne. You are my daughter. And I love you with all my heart."
The remainder of her goodbyes were short, as most of the family was making the journey to King's Landing anyway. Robb had pulled her to him, similar to Jon, and placed his forehead against hers. Though the two had their differences, Lyarra did not doubt that she'd miss her nephew beyond measure. Theon, however, had been a far more emotional farewell. By the time she'd found him, she was no longer able to hold back her tears. He did his best to act as if he wasn't crying himself, only brushing her hair back as she continued to unload her tears into his fur — but she'd bristled as he'd hiccuped through his own cries more than once. Theon Greyjoy was the biggest nuisance she'd ever met. And she missed the boy already.
Catelyn only placed her hand overtop Lyarra's, asking her to look over her children. Unlike the last time they had bid one another farewell, she made no promise of her return — nor that of Eddard's. She squeezed her hand within hers as she had before, and assured her that she would do her best.
After so many years, it was unusual taking part in such a large traveling party. She rode close to Jon and Eddard, observing as Benjen and Tyrion rode further ahead than the rest. Benjen had approached her the night before with caution, fearing an outburst from her —
no doubt. She could no longer force herself to blame the man for Jon's wishes, however, and only sighed at his trepidation. She'd hugged her brother then, tighter than she had in years. He promised to look after Jon, to watch over him as he began his Watch. As much as Lyarra longed to ignore the feeling, she couldn't help but think that these goodbyes felt different than they had in the past. They felt more permanent, more sorrowful.
Tyrion, however, only suggested that the two drink through their sorrows. Thus, resulting in the two waking in the kennels. She'd miss the little Lannister, she came to realize. He'd been a comforting presence through the days of the King's visit. He had never once treated her any different because of her station — or because she was a woman, for that matter.
As part of the group tore off, heading in another direction — Lyarra forced herself to steel her nerves. Tyrion turned to look at her then, giving her a long look — which, from her time with the man, could be interpreted as 'Well, fuck'. Benjen nodded in her direction, forcing a smile as he turned his horse back to face the road itself.
"There's great honor serving in the Night's Watch. The Starks have manned the wall for thousands of years. And you are a Stark." Ned stated, and Lyarra couldn't help but nod in agreement. At his words, Jon turned to face her — an unreadable expression marring his face. "You may not have our name, but you have our blood." He gestured towards Lyarra then, and the action itself brought warmth through her. She knew that Jon was not her son, that he longed to be Eddard's true-born, and yet Ned's tone suggested that he was just as much her blood as his.
Jon glanced at her then, eyes flickering between the two figures. He was thinking over his words, no doubt. Ned hesitated for only a moment, before riding off to join the remaining group. Lyarra steadied her horse, clasping onto his mane as she attempted to force words to come to her lips.
"I've spent my entire life wondering who my mother is. Wondering, is she alive? Does she know about me? Where I am, where I'm going?" Jon paused, turning to Lyarra once more. She held her breath as the boy rambled on, forcing herself to not take his words to heart. "Does she care?"
"Jon—" She started, but was cut off by a quick shake of the boy's head. The two only had so much time. She could still see Eddard's head peeking over the hills, but within a moment she'd have to quicken the speed of her horse to catch up with the rest.
"I've been so focused on a woman I didn't know, that I've ignored the mother in front of me." Anything she'd intended to say before was now muddled, leaving way for nothing but silence. "You are my mother. You always have been. Blood or no, that doesn't change." He stated, leaving no room for argument. Lyarra's breaths were shallow. She found herself longing to be beside him, then, to pull him close as she had before. The two were interrupted only by a shout from Eddard. They'd run out of time. Lyarra grasped the reins of her horse, pulling him ahead.
"I will see you again, my son. I'm sure of it." With that Lyarra forced herself to ride on, tearing her eyes from the boy as they moved in separate directions. She'd caught up to Ned with ease, as he'd stalled to wait for her.
"Did he ask about his mother?" Eddard questioned once they'd returned to the group. She paused only for a moment, before turning to him with finality set in her gaze.
"Aye, he did."
The party seldom stopped, usually only for the sake of Robert's bladder alone. Once, they'd took a break just before an open field. Arya had grown tired of her carriage, and through the journey had somehow ended up perched on Lyarra's horse. The moment they'd peeled off to rest, Arya had shot off of the beast and into the field. This resulted in a chase between the two, as Arya attempted to weave past the woman. They continued to run after one another for what felt like hours, only stopping when a familiar voice called after them.
"The fuck' are you two doing?" Sandor rasped, stomping towards them as he made his way down the hill. Lyarra panted, brushing a rogue strand of hair from her face. Her cheeks were flushed, chest heaving with exhaustion. All the while, Arya continued running circles around the woman — carefully avoiding the man before them, though Lyarra paid that no mind.
"What does it look like? Running after her. This little beast," She paused as Arya rounded on her, and took that as the moment to strike. Within an instant, the girl was wrapped around the side of her, held only by what little strength Lyarra had left. "is difficult to catch. She's too fast for the likes of me." She laughed as the girl flailed in her arms, conceding to place her back on the grass after a moment.
Sandor shot her a curious look, unclasping one of his gauntlets. Before Lyarra could question him, the man lunged at her — picking her up with ease, slinging her on his shoulder. Lyarra let out an indignant squawk. She was facing his back, while her legs hung against his chest. She had half the mind to shout, before kicking her legs in aggravation.
"Seems like you, on the other hand, aren't hard to catch at all." He placed her heavily back on the grass after another moment, a smug grin turning the corner of his lips. Lyarra groaned in a way unbecoming of herself, before she harshly dropped to the ground — laying her back against the grass.
"Is that what it was like when you were younger?" She questioned, turning towards Arya — who had been watching the two with an unreadable expression. "Cause' that was no fair. Twice my height, and then some." Lyarra repeated the familiar words, a complaint that she'd heard from Arya not long ago. Sandor only snorted before retreating to where they'd last seen the prince. She watched as he made his retreat, something that Arya used to her advantage — as she took the opportunity to strike, climbing over the woman to elbow her in the ribs.
Arya spent the next few days tormenting Lyarra. Every time she thought she'd get a moment of silence, the girl decided to pipe up — asking questions about anything they came across. Eventually, Lyarra had enough — handing the girl off to Septa Mordane before she could say anything else. Sansa, on the other hand, hadn't said much at all. Instead, she'd taken to staring longingly after the royal family as they rode ahead.
By the time they had reached an Inn at the crossroads, Lyarra had decided she'd had enough of horses for a lifetime. She was beginning to regret bargaining to ride her own, so that she hadn't had to ride in the carriage with the rest. As she dismounted the creature, she observed from a distance as Sansa shared words with Sandor. 'The Hound', she'd heard the men call him. A beast. The title almost made her laugh, if not for the mocking way they'd declared it. She didn't know the man well, if at all. Yet even as a boy, he'd protected her from his brother. He carried her to her bed, when she was too drunk to walk. More than once, he'd spent his evenings with her and Tyrion in Winterfell. She couldn't find anything 'beastly' about that.
As if he'd heard her thoughts, the man approached her then — head bowed low after his conversation with the Prince.
"The little bird scares easy. She won't do very well in King's Landing, with that attitude." Sandor muttered, nodding towards the red-haired girl who now walked alongside the Prince. Lyarra only hummed, brushing the mane of her horse. 'Frost', Jon had named the beast — due to his white hue. Even his lashes were pale, a fact that only further reminded her of Reyne.
"Can't say for certain that I'll fare any better." Lyarra admitted, turning to the man then — as he raised a brow. He'd gone to speak once more, before the two were cut off by a harsh shout. In an instant, the Kingsguard were up-in-arms, chasing after the sound. Sandor only shot her a look of defeat before he took off after them, Lyarra following suit. Sansa came running then, meeting the men before they could go any further. Joffrey was hurt, she'd supplied, though she hadn't said much else. Before Lyarra could follow them, Sansa grasped onto her arm — pulling her back.
"It was Arya, Arya did it. Nymeria bit Joffrey," She'd whispered, her voice shaking with fear. Lyarra felt terror sink into her own heart, as the implications of what the girl was saying hit her fully. If Arya was behind an attack on the prince, she could be greatly punished for it. Lyarra moved then to look for the girl, before she was once again pulled back by Sansa. "Please, please don't let anyone get hurt. Joffrey didn't mean to hurt anyone."
Lyarra attempted to soothe the girl as best she could, brushing her hair back softly — though the shaking in her own hands had become increasingly noticeable. "What happened out there? What did Joffrey do?" The moment the Prince's name had been mentioned, Lyarra ignored any blame directed towards her niece. In an instant, Sansa became rigid — hesitation coating her actions, as she all but refused to meet Lyarra's eye. She couldn't speak against the Prince, not when she was intending on becoming his future queen. When she came to realize properly that the girl wasn't going to speak, Lyarra called after Septa Mordane. Once she was certain Sansa would have someone watching over her, she ran in the opposite direction of the Kingsguard — searching desperately for her niece.
She'd found her just before a full hour had passed, curled under the stump of a tree. Lyarra was at her side in a flash, her hands running over her in quick movements to check for any kind of wound. Once she was certain there were none to be found, she pulled the girl back to face her — all but crumpling as she noticed the look of sorrow on her face.
"I had to send Nymeria away. They would have killed her for what she did to Joffrey. They would have killed her," Arya repeated, fisting Lyarra's tunic as she collapsed into her chest. She couldn't do much more than rub the girl's back as she cried, her heart only further shattering at each hiccup.
"Arya, you must tell me what happened," She requested, once she had begun to settle in the slightest. She'd felt the girl tense in her arms, and Lyarra almost regretted asking as she felt another fit of tears build. Arya had only just gone to speak, when they were interrupted by the familiar clinking of metal. The Kingsguard had found them. Not only that, but when she found the courage to raise her head — she was met with the face of Jaime Lannister. His expression hadn't given much away, but his eyes held a level of regret within them. He extended his hand to her then, and Lyarra resigned herself to clutching it — still holding Arya to her chest as she rose.
The men beside him had shot forward then, taking the girl from her arms as if she were a prisoner. Lyarra protested in anger, but was quickly silenced by Jaime's sharp glare.
"She is to be brought before the King. Those are my orders. Nothing else." He parted his arms then as if to placate her, but as Lyarra observed a guard push Arya harshly forwards — all comfort evaded her. Jaime, seemingly noticing this, only resigned himself to nod and move ahead.
"And what of her father? Should he not be present for this audience?" She demanded, stomping forward to move into his line of sight. Jaime all but deflated as she continued to argue, moving to push past her once again — before she stopped him with a harsh shove of her own.
"She attacked the Prince, Lyarra. I don't know what you expect of me. The Queen asked me to find her, so I did. She asked me to bring her to the King, so I will. I am a Guard, and as such I follow orders." Jaime ranted in one quick breath. The group itself had walked ahead, though Lyarra could still see the top of Arya's head between the bodies of the guards.
"The King's orders? Or your sister's?" Lyarra bit back, pausing only to watch the words sink into Jaime's head as she stomped ahead.
By the time Eddard had made his way back to the inn, Arya had already been brought to stand before the King. Robert had made a point to not speak to her without her Father present, a right that only he had deemed important. The moment Arya caught sight of her father, he reached to grasp her face in the palm of his hands.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" She chanted, voice crumpling as her resolve threatened to break. Arya always acted as if she were so much older than she was. She carried herself like a warrior. It was only at this moment that Lyarra allowed herself to notice how young the girl truly was. Within a moment she was beside her niece. As Eddard stepped forward to consult the King, Arya leaned into Lyarra's side. Jory stood close behind the two, a fact that only comforted Lyarra but a fraction.
"What is the meaning of this? Why was my daughter not brought to me at once?"
"How dare you speak to your king in that manner?" Cersei bit, scowling down at Ned. Lyarra had her own reply waiting, but as Jory placed a hand on her shoulder — shaking his head in the slightest, she allowed herself to take a breath. Robert rolled his eyes as his wife spoke, a fact that would have filled Lyarra with pity — had they not been in the situation they were.
"Quiet, woman." He grunted, and Lyarra observed as Cersei hadn't even batted an eye. She was used to his attitude, then. For a moment, she couldn't help but think that this could have been her sister. Lyanna could have been the one who'd been forced to suffer his wrath, tolerating his insults. "Sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. But we need to get this done quickly." Cersei stepped forward then, unperturbed as her husband prattled on.
"Your girl and that butcher's boy attacked my son. That animal of hers nearly tore his arm off." The Queen stated, only meeting Ned's gaze. Lyarra paused then to glance down at Arya. She had yet to receive the truth of what had happened from anyone. Sansa had suggested Joffrey had something to do with it, but hadn't said much else.
"That's not true! She just bit him a little. He was hurting Mycah." Arya spat, glancing up at her aunt — before soon realizing she should be directing her explanation to the King. Robert's eyes had widened a fraction, as he processed what she said. Cersei and the Prince, however, made no such movement. They convinced themself of what the truth was, and weren't going to let a little girl argue with them any longer.
"Joff' told us what happened. You and that boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him." The Queen insisted, only then glancing down at Arya. Lyarra felt the girl tense in her arms, and reached to keep her at her side.
"That's not what happened!"
"Yes, it is!"
The two children argued back and forth for another moment, as Lyarra came to a frightening realization. They would not come out of this confrontation unscathed. The Lannisters would not allow them to. Cersei called Sansa in at that moment, asking her to recount what had occurred. Sansa, just as she had before, avoided the question — her voice timid, as she only stared forward at the King. She claimed that she hadn't remembered, that she didn't know what had happened. That was all it took for Arya to retaliate, pulling on her sister's furs.
"She's as wild as that animal of hers. I want her punished."
As the group continued to argue, Robert spoke up once again. Eddard was to discipline Arya privately, while he tended to Joffrey on his own. Just as she had gone to make her retreat, pushing Arya in front of her — Cersei spoke up once more.
"And what of the direwolf? What of the beast that savaged your son?"
If they were lucky, Nymeria had fled into the night. The Lannister guard confirmed as much, telling the King that they caught no sign of the beast. Before Lyarra could allow herself a breath of relief, the Queen had another thought.
"We have another wolf."
Within a beat, Lyarra's heart ran cold. Lady. The Lannisters intended to have Lady killed, due to Nymeria's defense of Arya. Sansa began to tremble once more, leaning heavily into her aunt's side. Before she could stop herself, she pulled the girl against her — doing her best to muffle her cries.
"He doesn't mean Lady, does he? No, no, not Lady! Lady didn't bite anyone! She's good!" Sansa cried into her furs, as Arya came to her defense — arguing that Lady shouldn't be punished. Cersei had made up her mind, however, requesting that Ilyn Payne tend to the wolf. Eddard spoke up then, halting the man's motions. He looked to Lyarra then, nodding to his daughters.
"Jory, Lyarra. Take the girls to their rooms." He grumbled, resigned to do the deed himself. "If it must be done, then I'll do it myself." With that, he made his way out-- head bowed low. Jory moved to heed Ned's wishes, taking Arya in arm, before noticing that Lyarra hadn't budged. She pulled herself from Sansa then, kissing her forehead as she followed her brother — gesturing for Jory to watch over the girls.
Eddard hadn't been difficult to catch up to, and Lyarra held no doubt that he was stalling to avoid what was to come. As she stepped towards him, his expression wasn't one of surprise — rather, defeat.
"You don't need to see this. You should be with the girls. They need you right now, more than I do." Ned muttered, though his tone held no sense of expectancy. He knew she didn't intend to budge, and only moved further towards the kennels. As they trudged down the path, they took note of the man approaching them — horse at his side, something slung over the creature. Sandor hadn't done more than raise a brow upon sight of her, but he stalled in the slightest. Across the horse laid a body, one coated in blood — with thick slashes down its body. It could only belong to one person, Lyarra came to realize in horror.
"The butcher's boy, you rode him down?" Eddard's voice wavered, disgust evident in his glare. Sandor paused then, facing the two — though he only met Lyarra's gaze. She willed herself to feel something other than fear, but nothing came. She wasn't sure what she as afraid of, in that moment. However, she was oddly certain it wasn't Sandor. She'd seen a corpse before, but not that of a child's. But she knew of what it meant to honor duty. To know you must follow something, though you did not want to do it. Lyarra had heard of 'The Hound'. Of the Sandor Clegane that could slice a grown man in half with only the flick of his blade. She wasn't certain that she'd met him, until that very moment.
"He ran. Not very fast." With that, Sandor shot another look her away — before pulling away with the horse in tow. Lyarra willed her feet to move, after that, doing her best to ignore the trembling within her figure. Eddard had glanced over at her, once he was certain the man was out of sight — but she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze.
Once they'd reached the kennels, Lyarra could hardly hold back her gasp. There, Lady sat, bright as a first snow — with wide eyes, tail wagging once she took note of the two familiar faces. She had half the mind to release the beast, as Arya had. But she knew better. They hadn't found the last wolf. This time, they wouldn't settle without seeing its corpse.
Lyarra crouched beside Lady, as Eddard approached her from behind. She could hardly hold back her tears, as she caressed the animal's fur. Lady came to lay beside her, looking up at her with love that could only be found in an animal. Ned made quick work of the blade, and with a whine — she was gone. She rose then, taking note of Eddard's solemn expression, before making her way back to the inn.
Her feet carried her to the tavern, and she perched herself on a stool — throwing coin in the vague direction of a worker, before she could stop herself. Sleep would evade her, and if she returned to her room now — she'd find one of her nieces, inconsolable. The thought made her heart heavy, but she knew all too well that she was not sober enough for the night ahead. Before her drink came, a heavy lump took a seat beside her. There, Sandor sat, blood still coating his cheeks. Had Lyarra not been as exhausted as she was, the sight itself would have disgusted her. Instead, she raised her thumb to his cheek — determinedly ignoring his sharp flinch at her approach, as she wiped the blood from him. As he adjusted himself, leaning closer to her by only an inch, Lyarra couldn't help her own flinch.
"You frightened of me now, Little Wolf?" The name forced painful memories through her head. Memories that she'd been doing her best to forget. Instead, she grimaced — her drink being placed beside her at that moment. She took a swig of the ale, cringing at its bitter flavor.
"I've seen worse than the likes of you. Takes more than a little blood to scare me." Lyarra admitted, avoiding his gaze — though she could feel the heat of it. He only rasped out a noise that sounded vaguely like a chuckle. When she had glanced over at him, he'd been staring down at his gauntlets — furiously wiping what appeared to be another stain of blood. "In fact, I'd say I'm more frightened with myself now — than anything." As Sandor ripped his stare away from his armor, raising a brow at her words — she continued.
"I cried when we put down Lady. As if she were my own flesh and blood. And yet, just before— when I saw the butcher's boy," Lyarra paused then, forcing a name to come to her lips, "Mycah. When I saw him, I froze. I didn't cry. I didn't feel much of anything, beyond fear." Sandor was silent for a moment, taking her words in with a swig of his own drink. Wine, she assumed. She'd only seen the man drink wine, in all this time.
"Dogs are honest creatures," Wolves, she corrected in her head, though she made no move to speak. "'S why I like 'em. A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you in the face." He paused then, his fingers outstretched as if he itched to remove his armor. "If it's anyone's fault, it's your idiot fucking' brother. Who the fuck' brings a wolf the size of three-men-combined to King's Landing? Let alone two."
Lyarra allowed herself to laugh, as she considered the man's words. Ned permitted the girls to bring their wolves, partially because he didn't want them to be alone — but also because he knew well enough they wouldn't be able to be cared for back home. If only she'd argued against it. In the back of her mind, she thought of what it would have been like for Jon. He would've fought to the death for Ghost, no doubt. He would've stepped in front of a blade himself, before he allowed it to be brought down on the wolf's head. The thought made her shudder, and Sandor sent her another curious glance before she drank down the remainder of her ale.
She stood then, wobbling on her two feet — before bumping into the figure beside her. It was only after a moment that she'd realized Sandor had placed two hands on her, steadying her so that she wouldn't fall again. His expression held a vague hint of amusement within it, though he steeled himself — light fading just as quickly as it had appeared.
"Seven hells, woman. You need me to fucking' carry you again?" He grumbled, moving to pick her up by her waist — but she quickly shot out a hand to stop him. Lyarra gestured only for him to help her to the door, and the two paused once the moon hit their faces. Just before they reached the rooms of the inn, Lyarra stopped — Sandor shooting an arm out in order to keep himself in place, after her sudden movement.
"We won't be safe in King's Landing, will we?" She questioned quietly, her eyes turned to him — seeking something, though she was not certain what it was. Comfort? Reassurance? He only paused, moving to grasp onto her shoulder with familiarity she was not certain she deserved.
"I'll keep you safe, Little Wolf." He promised, moving her forward then before she could say much else. She turned to thank him properly once they had reached her room, but by the time she had the chance — he was gone. Lyarra only frowned for a moment, before barging her way in. She regretted her loud entrance after only a second, as she noticed Sansa curled into her bed. The red-head shot up at the sound of the door opening, and Lyarra couldn't help but wince at her expression. The girl was exhausted, no doubt. She made her way to her quickly, laying beside her as she pulled Sansa to her chest.
"She's going to hate me forever, isn't she?" The girl questioned, voice only slightly muffled by the fur. Lyarra paused as she considered the question. Arya was stubborn, and likely would march around for the next few days — even weeks, claiming that she despised her sister. That Sansa was evil, and she never wanted to see her again. She only brushed Sansa's hair back, curling her finger around the smaller locks near her ear.
"She'll come to understand why you did what you did. When she's older." Lyarra felt the girl's tears start to build again, and with a comforting hush she held her tighter. Eventually, Sansa's breath started to even — sleep overtaking her. Lyarra did not dare move, and instead only pulled the furs tighter around the two of them. She did not know what the future had in store for them, let alone in King's Landing. She couldn't promise to keep the Stark girls safe. Not with lions breathing down their neck. All she could do was try to care for them the best she was able to.
So. Then that happened. This has been one of my shorter chapters actually.. Weird. Not a lot happened in this. Besides... everything I guess. Never mind. Maybe so much happened that it feels like nothing happened?? Idk... Anyways.
More Sandor & Lyarra scenes! Yay! I will warn you all now that this will be.. very much a slow-burn. More slow than burn. But they will have many more interactions from now on. Sandor is intrigued by Lyarra, especially since she didn't shy away from him after the whole .. 'Mycah' incident.
In other news, Jaime is still being weird! Ig that happens when you sleep with your sister... Alright buddy. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As always, feel free to leave any comments you have!
Between raising two children, training to become a better swordsman, and managing her duties as a lady — Lyarra had very little time to herself. If she wasn't with one of her own, she was looking after one of the other Stark children for Eddard and Catelyn. Since Gogni's death, she hadn't once left Winterfell. Even traveling down that train of thought had her seizing with fear. Instead, she spent her nights practicing her work with a blade.
Reyne was seemingly growing taller by the minute. Her blonde locks reached down to her belly button by now, with similarly blonde lashes — almost a mirror image of the red-haired boy from years before. Initially, her appearance had caused a stir within the castle. Eddard had questioned her ceaselessly, but Lyarra never answered any of his inquiries. Similarly to when he had returned with Jon, she only told him that she couldn't answer him truthfully — pleading with him to not ask her to do so. Eventually, the man conceded. His wife did no such thing, however Lyarra paid her no mind. Reyne would be raised under Lyarra's care. In her eyes, she was a Stark — but neither she nor Jon would ever be able to take the name. Once she was old enough, it was decided that she would be given a job as a handmaiden. Lyarra argued that Reyne should be treated as her own daughter, and that she should not have to work to stay — but she had pushed her luck far enough already, and Eddard wouldn't do much more than blink at her. She had no Stark blood within her, unlike Jon.
The two were thick as thieves from the moment that Lyarra brought her home. The gap between the two was minimal, and it was evident in the way they treated one another as equals. Jon quickly accepted Reyne as his family, as she did with him. It was oddly reminiscent of Lyarra's own relationship with Benjen, and the thought forced a bittersweet feeling to course through her. Benjen had returned only thrice now, and each time he waited at the gate for Jon to come running. He'd accepted Reyne into his heart as easily as Jon had, and had taken to picking the girl up and spinning her each time he saw her. As much as seeing her brother overjoyed Lyarra, she couldn't help the beat of trepidation each time she watched him speak with Jon. More than once now, he'd brought up the Night's Watch to her. He was still too young to be a member now, a thought that calmed her ever-so-slightly, but one could see his own anticipation building. He wanted to be like his Uncle Benjen, and Lyarra couldn't fault him for that — but that didn't make dealing with the fact any easier.
While Lyarra was glad to see Jon have a friend — have family, even — other than Robb, it was growing increasingly evident that he wasn't any less of an outsider. He still longed to be Ned's true-born son, something that conflicted, as well as saddened her in equal measure. She viewed Jon as her own, and had since the moment he'd been placed in her arms. She knew in her heart that he wasn't hers, but to see him long to be someone else's entirely was not an easy thing for her to accept. Lyarra did her best to appease to her brother, coaxing him into allowing Jon into more familial settings. While Jon was never allowed to sit by the family at feasts, she herself would place herself next to him. It was torturous for Lyarra, watching the boy so desperately try to be a part of a family that he wasn't made for.
Beyond Jon and Theon, Lyarra was not particularly close with any of the Stark children. They were her kin, so she had always had love for them. But, she'd never struck a proper bond with the rest. Robb was too eager, a trait that only Jon had been able to match. Oftentimes when the two sparred, she would stand at Theon's side — critiquing their form. Robb had brushed off her advice more than once, but Jon would always correct himself — listening to each word. Sansa, from the moment she was born, was meant to be a lady. She welcomed the fact with pride, something that Lyarra herself had never been able to do. Within a few years, it had been decided that Reyne would be her handmaiden. Initially, the two hadn't gotten along-- which came as no surprise to Lyarra, considering Sansa's other relationships with the 'help'. But overtime, the two grew closer than she'd expected. Sansa hadn't seem to have accepted Reyne into the family by any means, but the two were good friends — close enough that she allowed Reyne to travel with her wherever they went.
It wasn't until the birth of Arya, that Lyarra found herself developing a true bond with one of the Stark children. Arya was the brasher, more cunning version of Lyanna Stark. There was a boundless list of similarities between the two, and yet Lyarra still felt as if she had never met someone like Arya. From the moment she was old enough, she wanted to learn to swing a blade. Jon had been hesitant, afraid of causing her any kind of harm — but Lyarra was more than willing.
Initially, Eddard had advised against it. He and Catelyn knew that Arya was also meant to be a lady of the court. Yet, in true fashion, Lyarra did nothing to heed his words. She only agreed to not allow Arya a true sword, instead promising to teach her with a wooden blade. Additionally, the two only ever practiced at night — just before Arya was meant to take herself to bed. Sometimes Jon would oversee their movements, chiming in to assist his sister. Other times, Eddard would watch from a distance — smiling softly in his own secretive way that Lyarra had come to know all too well.
Arya, similar to Robb, had never seemed to look at Jon differently for being a 'bastard.' The day that she'd learned what it meant, she had laughed in Lyarra's face. In her eyes, Jon was her brother — whether they shared the same mother, or no.
Catelyn, however, was a complicated figure. Lyarra sympathized with the woman, and tried to reach out to her more than once after the death of Brandon. Initially it had seemed as if Lyarra's connection with Jon had established resentment within Catelyn, however the woman did her best to maintain a connection between the two. More often than not, she would request Lyarra's assistance with the children — even if just to sit with her while she watched them. Lyarra longed to be closer with her, even if just to have a sister again. But their differences were too great. Again, she couldn't help but wonder how different things would have been if she had married Edmure Tully as she was meant to.
The birth of Brandon 'Bran' Stark served to surprise Lyarra further. The boy was even more adventurous than she had been at his age, often climbing whatever it was that he could find. She had half the heart to tell him of the clearing beyond the woods, before thinking better of it. Bran, who was hardly reminiscent of his namesake, had come to Lyarra more than once in the middle of the night — as if he knew he wouldn't be waking her from her slumber. He'd spend hours asking her about the world that she knew, asking her to tell him anything she could think of. Lyarra would spin her own stories more often than not, but there were a few times that she would tell the boy of the tales she'd heard with the Free Folk. Since she had fled from the camp, Lyarra never once mentioned any of their names. She wouldn't speak of any of it, not even to Reyne. When Bran had questioned where she'd heard the 'story of a man who had suckled at the teat of a Giant', Lyarra only shrugged — pushing him out of her chambers with a light smile.
More often than not, Jon had found himself in her chambers as of late as well. His nightmares had been more frequent than ever, resulting in him pounding on her door in the middle of the night. By the third time it'd happened, Lyarra had learned to leave her door open a fraction — if only to save herself from the harrowing sound of his loud knocking. Every night since Jon could remember, he dreamt of a girl with hair so blonde it could've been white — with eyes of a violet hue, and a snow-white complexion. In Jon's eyes, it didn't appear to be a dream — on either side. The girl had seemed to notice him as well, though she never told him her name. Lyarra had never heard of someone sharing dreams, and had half the mind to question Maester Luwin — if not for Jon begging for her secrecy. He did not want the girl to go away, as if he was scared of what it meant.
The Stark children had seemed to age at a speed beyond Lyarra's control. Before she knew it, Bran was standing tall at her hip — with Robb and Jon towering over her. Even Sansa had almost reached her in stature by now, though Arya seemed to have no such luck.
Lyarra watched from the stone window of her chambers, as the boys helped Brandon nock his arrows. Eddard and Catelyn were also watching from the platform above the group, and she observed as they had warm smiles of their own. Each time, Bran had missed. Lyarra herself had never been proficient with a bow, but the boy barely reached the target itself. Jon, unsurprisingly, stepped forward to assist the boy each time — recommending a different approach whenever Brandon had missed.
She couldn't make out what Jon had said to the boy due to their distance, but when they both turned back to glance at her — Lyarra couldn't help but shoot the boy a supportive grin. Jon matched it with one of his own, patting Bran on the back as the boy turned to the target once more. Again, the boy missed after a moment — and chuckles echoed through the courtyard. Just barely, Lyarra could hear Eddard admonishing the boys — and couldn't help but let out a laugh of her own.
Just as she had begun to settle down, Lyarra watched as an arrow met its mark — finally reaching the center of the target. She'd gone to clap instantly, before noticing the arrow still nocked in Bran's bow. From her spot, she couldn't see where the shot had come from — but after Jon's laugh echoed through the yard again, she could just barely make out Arya's retreating figure, with Bran on her tail.
Lyarra took the chance to make her way down to the yard then, as she watched Ned move from his spot on the platform. Jon hadn't moved an inch, and instead he was cleaning up after the other boys — as Robb was removing the arrows from the target. Lyarra placed her hand on the boy's shoulder, gently notifying him of her presence.
"You saw that, then?" Jon laughed, shaking his head as he replaced the arrows in the basket. Lyarra grinned, watching as the other Stark boys began to argue in the distance. Just barely, she could still make out Arya running in the distance — Bran not far behind her.
"It was hard to miss." Lyarra admitted after a moment, tilting her head as she felt eyes burning into her. There, still above the two on the platform, stood Catelyn. Her glare towards the boy was sharp, the hate within her eyes evident. In an instant, Jon seemed to shrink in on himself. Before she could allow herself to do much else, Lyarra smiled at the woman above them — attempting to placate her nerves. Catelyn, remembering herself, did seem to calm at that — even shooting Lyarra a timid smile of her own, before she marched off.
Lyarra rarely observed her brother's executions, so it came as no surprise when she'd only pulled Jon's furs tighter around him — before stomping off to find the girls. After Arya's stunt earlier, she was nowhere to be seen — but she was able to spot Reyne and Sansa together, as they were sewing something for Septa Mordane. Reyne's smile was instant, while Sansa's eyes only slightly brightened at her arrival.
"Ah, my Lady! You must see Lady Sansa's work. It's simply beautiful. The stitching is near perfect, wouldn't you say?" Septa Mordane clasped her hands as she spoke, the cheerfulness in her tone almost sickening. Lyarra couldn't bring herself to do much more than nod, as she placed a hand on Sansa's shoulder. She'd never been very good at sewing herself, a fact that Old Nan had often criticized her for — but she did have to admit, her work was appealing. She stood there for only a moment longer, placing a kiss on the foreheads of the two girls — before she made her way through the castle.
Lyarra had only just made her way back to the yard before she just barely made out the sound of light footsteps. She willed herself to be silent, only taking a short breath before she reached her hand out — plucking the girl up by her furs. Arya grunted, legs swinging wildly in the air. She yelled for the woman to put her down, and after another fit of laughs Lyarra conceded. She was met with Arya's frustrated grin, a sight that only further amused her.
"That's no fair! You're twice my height, and then some. You don't see me kicking your ankles when you walk by, do you?" Arya's complaints were half-nonsense, as she grumbled to herself. Lyarra leaned back to watch the girl ramble in amusement. It was true, the action was unnecessary — and yet each time she had the opportunity, she found herself repeating it. Brandon was too large for her to successfully pick him up any more, which left only Arya for her to terrorize — as Rickon would cry each time she'd tried.
"You're good with a bow. I didn't know you'd been practicing." Came Lyarra's reply after she'd wiped the remaining tears from her eyes. Arya reeled from the sudden topic change, as her arms came to cross themselves across her defensively.
"Only when Bran leaves his behind." Arya muttered out, foot still swinging beneath her as she stomped. Lyarra's heart warmed at the sentiment. Had Bran left his bow out and Eddard noticed, the boy would have been admonished to no end. They were taught to have greater respect for their belongings. Arya knew this all too well, and took the opportunity to help both her brother and herself.
The two were interrupted, then, by the sound of the gate creaking open. They made their way to the crowd together, only pausing when they noticed the creatures in the boys hands. Each one held a wolf pup — a direwolf, she'd later come to know. While they were gone, they'd come upon a litter of pups — and Jon, she'd been told, was the one to suggest that each Stark child had one of their own. Robb had named his Grey-Wind, Sansa named her lady, Arya— Nymeria, Brandon— Summer, Rickon— Shaggydog, while Jon named his Ghost. Reyne had been delighted at the sight of the pup, and dashed forward to see him. At that, Ghost had almost cowered further into Jon's arms. From that day on, Jon rarely went anywhere without Ghost at his side. If he had to leave him behind for any reason, Lyarra was likely the one watching him. Reyne took the opportunity to visit more than once, normally when Sansa was at her lessons.
The death of Jon Arryn came suddenly, without warning. Lyarra hadn't known the man well, but she knew of her brother's love for him. She admired the man for protecting her brother — as well as the King — with honor. She'd been beside Eddard at the weirwood tree, when Catelyn had approached. Lyarra had come to the same spot with Eddard more than once, after an execution, as he took the time to collect his thoughts as well as himself. She would never say anything, choosing only to relish her time outside of the castle itself. As Catelyn stepped forward, Lyarra turned herself in the slightest to give the two more space.
"All these years and I still feel like an outsider when I come here," She'd heard, observing as Catelyn stared wondrously at the tree. She knew the feeling all too well. Although she was a Stark, through and through, she'd felt like an outsider every day of her life. Unlike Catelyn, however, this was one of the only places that she'd felt as if she did belong.
"You have five northern children, you're not an outsider." Came Eddard's eventual reply. After that, Lyarra did her best to tune the two out. She had no part in their talks, and that much was apparent. She pulled her furs tighter around herself, sharpening her own blade as Eddard cleaned his. Lyarra only properly tuned back in, once she'd observed brother's sorrow — silent, but clear as day in the way his brow had pinched. Jon Arryn was dead. Though she'd only remembered Lysa Arryn as the girl who had glared at her in Riverrun, she was thankful to hear that the woman and her boy were alright.
The brunt of the news came after. This time, Catelyn spoke to the two equally — meeting Lyarra's eyes with a gaze filled with sorrow of her own. The King, alongside his family, was riding to Winterfell. With the death of the hand, that could only mean one thing. The realization hadn't seemed to dawn on Ned, as he was too conflicted by his own emotions. Robert was Eddard's best friend, and despite his connection with Lyanna — he had never cared for the man any less. Lyarra, however, despised the man. Since the death of her sister, he'd only become worse in his own grief. The King was known as a drunk with a harsh temper. He married Cersei Lannister not long after the death of Lyanna, and within a few years they'd had their own litter of children.
"If he's coming this far North, there's only one thing he's after." Ned trailed off, staring into the reflection of his sword rather than meeting the gaze of the two women beside him. Lyarra met Catelyn's eyes warily, a fraction of her own fear reminiscent of the other woman's eyes.
"You don't have to agree, Ned." Lyarra all but whispered, as Catelyn had muttered her own words of agreement. The thought of her brother leaving to King's Landing, as Brandon had — as their father had, had her gut churning.
Once they had returned to the castle, Lyarra made her way to Jon within an instant. He'd been perched on a barrel, laughing as Theon demonstrated something vulgar with Robb. She'd seen this same act repeated between the boys more than once. Theon was the oldest of the group, and as such he felt obligated to teach the boys what he knew — more specifically, about the ways of women. When Lyarra had reached the group, she watched as Robb placed his hands on Theon's waist — leaning him towards the ground as if he meant to kiss him. They only stopped when Lyarra let out a light cough, raising her brow at their antics. Robb yanked Theon up with a laugh, patting Jon's back before he walked off. Theon, however, stood there for a moment — wobbling as if he couldn't stand properly. Lyarra could hardly hold back her laughter, as the boy's face was beet red. Robb called after him not long after, and she finally let out a chuckle once she noticed the speed Theon had chased after him. Jon only shook his head before he turned to face her properly
"I didn't mean to interrupt your fun," Lyarra posed the statement as a question, her brow still raised as she observed Jon's expression. He only shrugged, letting out a laugh of his own.
"I promise you, I wasn't the one having fun there." Lyarra couldn't help but agree, as she leaned against a post to look at the boy. Jon was unlike most boys his age. He never spoke of women, and when he did it was never in the way that Theon had. He seemed more interested in them as a concept, than as something to chase after.
"The King is riding for Winterfell. With his family." She told him after a moment, raising her elbows to place herself on a barrel of her own. Jon's eyes widened a bit, but he nodded all the same. He had never met the royal family, a fact that Lyarra herself had been thankful for. Beyond the color of his eyes, Jon appeared to be Lyanna's mirror-image. She could only imagine Robert's reaction when he saw him for the first time.
"You don't sound excited." Jon raised his own eyebrow at her then, tilting his head as if he didn't understand her intentions. Lyarra only shrugged, kicking her foot now that she had a bit of leverage.
"Can't say I have much reason to be. I'll look forward to when they leave, and I no longer have Catelyn up my arse' every minute of every day." Jon's laughter was hesitant, as if he was afraid the woman in question would hear. Lyarra, however, paid that no mind. She spoke freely, a fact that had landed her in trouble more than once. Before she could say another word, a snap of a twig echoed around them — and within a moment, a head of blonde hair timidly approached. Reyne, once noticing who the two were, noticeably relaxed — coming to stand by the two with a light smile of her own.
"What are they like? The Lannisters?" Reyne asked timidly, clutching the ends of her sleeves with her fingers. Lyarra paused at the question, thinking it over. She'd only ever truly met Jaime, and that was years prior. Now, he was a member of Robert Baratheon's Kingsguard. She'd only seen Cersei from a distance, and had never even met the notorious 'imp' of the family.
"I suppose we'll all find out in the days to come. Now, off to bed with the both of you. We'll all have duties to attend to in the morning, and staying up until the sun rises won't make it any easier." With that, she placed a light kiss on their heads — before making her way to her own chambers. Lyarra did her best to not think the worst, but she dreaded the days to come. If Robert had his way, her brother would be leaving with the family by the end of their visit — no doubt with one of his children in tow. The thought only further sickened Lyarra, and she was only able to escape it once she shut her eyes — a feather pillow harshly placed over head to drown out the light.
The day of the King's arrival came all too soon. Throughout the morning she had been at Ghost's side, marveling at the size of the wolf. It'd only been a few weeks, and yet he was half her size. In the back of her mind, it reminded her of how quickly Jon grew. She only left the beast be when she heard Eddard calling for her. The family lined themselves up, standing in wait by the front gate. Lyarra herself stood on Catelyn's left. If she peaked past the two beside her, she could see Robb, followed by Sansa and Bran. Behind her stood Jory, Theon, and Jon. She longed to be at her boy's side, but Lyarra stood solemnly all the same. Just behind the two boys, she could see Reyne peaking over the crowd. Jon shifted, allowing her to see past him, and the sight brought a smile to her lips before she could control herself. After a moment Arya came barreling through with a helmet on her head. The girl's antics forced a reluctant chuckle from Lyarra's lips, though she was silenced with a glare from Catelyn.
Rickon bristled beside her as the riders approached the family, and Lyarra couldn't help but place a comforting hand on his shoulder to stabilize him. She noticed first, that the King wasn't leading the line. An unsurprising fact, but it left Lyarra to scan over those she could see. In the front was a member of the Kingsguard, though she couldn't see beyond the helmet to further look over who exactly it could be. Behind him, rode a blonde boy — too proud to be anyone other than the prince. Joffrey, then, she decided. Catelyn had described the members of their traveling party in length, and Lyarra only forced herself to listen in order to relay the information to Reyne.
The moment she looked beyond the Prince, Lyarra's breath caught in her throat. Catelyn glanced at her in concern, but she only waved the woman off. There, rode a man with chain-mail armor — with a helm resembling some sort of beast. As he opened his helm in the slightest, Lyarra found herself leaning forward to observe what was underneath it. She was only broken out of her stupor by the sudden movement beside her, as Catelyn tugged her sleeve down to kneel with the rest of the family. King Robert approached then, climbing off of his horse with a hefty grunt.
His stomps could be heard from inside the castle, Lyarra thought to herself. Once Robert motioned for them to stand, Lyarra was the first on her feet. He'd glanced over at her in that moment, eyes widening as he scanned over her features. She had met with Robert a handful of times now, and each time he would pause as if he thought she truly was Lyanna. He seemingly shook himself out of his own shock then, as he only turned back to her brother with a glare.
"You've got fat," Robert claimed after a beat of silence. Eddard only raised his brow, motioning towards the man himself. After another moment of quiet, the two laughed between themselves — hugging with joy that could only be found in reuniting with a loved one. Robert made his way to Catelyn then, pulling her close as well, as if the two were good friends. He paused when he came to stand in front of Lyarra, his smile slipping off of his face — making way for something uncertain. Lyarra forced a grin to tug at the corner of her lips, moving to curtsy in a way unbecoming of herself.
"Your Grace," She greeted, voice tight as she did her best to appear jovial. Robert moved to hug her then, his arms snug around her waist as she was forced to lean into his furs.
"Ah, Lyarra. As beautiful as ever." Lyarra could hardly hold back the flash of disgust that bled through her, but she held her head high as ever. The man moved from her then, ruffling Rickon's hair before standing beside the other children. She'd glanced back at Jon, meeting his worried glance with a smile that she could only hope was convincing.
As a woman with hair as blonde as the mane of a Lion stepped out of the carriage, Lyarra realized then that she could only be one person. Cersei Lannister. Her features were all too similar to that of Jaime's, though she could only vaguely recall them. She was beautiful, and carried herself in a way that Lyarra was certain she knew it. After a moment, more children climbed out as well. They all appeared to be smaller copies of herself, none even slightly resembling Robert Baratheon's round features. True lions, Lyarra thought to herself. She watched as the King made his way through the other Stark children, greeting them each with separate comments.
She only stopped when the Kingsguard from before reached to remove his helmet, releasing a pile of golden locks. In an instant, Lyarra knew it was Jaime Lannister. He'd grown ten-fold since last she'd seen him, and yet his eyes were just as youthful as they had been before. She found herself growing concerned on whether he would recognize her — or even remember her, for that matter — after all this time. Her concerns were only buried when he met her eyes from across the yard, his gaze sparkling with familiarity. She smiled at him then, eyes conveying a message that only he could understand. Similar to before, amusement flooded into his expression as he communicated with her through glances alone. All at once, he shut himself off — moving to stand behind the Queen, as Cersei turned to look in confusion. Following her brother's gaze, she met Lyarra's eyes with distrust. Lyarra forced herself to smile at the woman, doing her best to not shrink at her intensity. This seemed to do nothing to placate her, however she approached nonetheless.
Cersei held out an expectant hand to Eddard, as he leaned to kiss her hand. With the woman distracted, Lyarra turned to catch Jaime's gaze again — but he was all-too focused on the ground beneath him. She had no doubt that she wouldn't get the chance to even speak with him until later. Cersei came to stand in front of her then, moving into her line of sight with another curious glance.
"My queen," She greeted, curtsying as Catelyn had. Cersei lingered for a moment, scanning over Lyarra in a way that only further discomforted the woman. After a moment, she'd stepped away — giving Lyarra the chance to take a breath. She took the time to search for the man with the beast-shaped helm again, furrowing her brow as she came to notice that he was already looking at her. She held his gaze for a moment too long. He seemed familiar, in a way that she could not quite decipher. Lyarra was certain she hadn't met the man before, and yet his eyes glimmered in a way that she knew all too well. Before she had the chance to further investigate the man, she was interrupted by her brother stepping away from the group.
She shot him an inquisitive look, bordering on concern, but Eddard only smiled back at her — in a way that had not truly met his eyes. Lyarra took a breath then, choosing to listen in on the conversations beside her.
"Where's the imp?" She overheard Arya questioning, her tone expectant as if she had asked the same thing only minutes prior. Lyarra was seemingly not the only one who'd heard, as Cersei then turned to ask Jaime of his whereabouts. He shot Lyarra another quick look before he turned. She took the opportunity to glance over at Jon and Reyne, who almost stood side by side now. Theon, who had previously been at Jon's side, stood just behind Robb. Catelyn shot the two boys wary looks, but they seemed to pay her no mind. Once the group had begun to disperse, Lyarra quickly moved to Jon's side.
The rest of her night was spent preparing for the feast. While most ladies often had a handmaiden to take care of them — and ready them for most occasions, Lyarra had all but refused one. Instead, if she did need any help she would often ask for Reyne's assistance alone. Tonight in particular had been one of those nights. While the girl was braiding Lyarra's hair, Jon sat in the corner — perched on her dresser.
"D'you know Ser Jaime?" Jon questioned after a moment, twirling a dagger in his fingers. The inquiry gave Lyarra pause, and she glanced over at the boy with a raised brow.
"I knew him when we were children, yes. But it's been many years since we last spoke. Why do you ask?" She leaned back, wincing as Reyne tugged on the front of her hair. She liked to avoid these intricate designs when she had the chance, but Catelyn had all but demanded that everyone dress 'properly' for their guests.
"He's sort of beautiful." Jon whispered, trailing off as if he hadn't realized he spoke at all. At Lyarra's inquisitive glance, he grunted — sitting up and placing the dagger beside him. "In the way that all Knights are, I mean. He looks like he fell out of one of Bran's stories."
Lyarra couldn't help the laugh that followed. When she'd first seen Jaime, she'd traveled down a similar train of thought. It was hard to picture a man more perfect than Jaime Lannister. However, when she thought of the man there was far from attraction in her mind. She adored him, but not in the way that she'd felt for Gogni — nor Petyr, for that matter. Still, he was difficult to look away from.
"You were right the first time, I think. He's beautiful." Reyne whispered, curling her hands around Lyarra's locks wistfully. With a sharp look, she returned to her previous movements. Jon's response was an audible chuckle, one that was only interrupted by the distant sound of Catelyn shouting after one of her children. Lyarra sat up then, pulling her furs tighter around herself. She was adorned with a white fur pelt, a red gown trailing down her figure. Jon solemnly nodded as he moved to open the door for her. Jon wasn't to attend the feast at all, while Reyne was not to leave Sansa's side. As they approached the hall, Lyarra paused to kiss Jon's forehead — before entering with Reyne at her side. She took her seat beside Eddard, while Reyne was placed next to Sansa.
The feast itself passed agonizingly slow, as Lyarra had no choice but to mingle with guests. The man with the beast-shaped helm from earlier was nowhere to be found, a fact that only further suited to disappoint her. As she watched Eddard pour himself another drink, her heart only lightened when she heard a familiar voice.
"You two at a feast.." Benjen announced his presence, "It's like a bear in a trap." The sight of her brother instantly filled Lyarra with joy, and she could hardly hold herself back as she jumped into the man's arms. With a grunt, he picked her up with just as much fervor. He only pulled back to pat Ned on the back, before he slung an arm around Lyarra's shoulder.
Rather than meet Benjen with the same level of enthusiasm, Eddard had only forced a light — almost unnoticeable smile, on his lips. Within a moment, he was describing the beheading from earlier. Lyarra allowed herself to tune the two men out, taking the opportunity to peak over her brother's arm and gaze at the crowd. In the center was the King, with a woman on his lap. Beside him, men were cheering — arm in arm.
"Direwolves south of the wall, talk of the walkers, and my brother might be the next Hand to the king." Lyarra allowed herself a light laugh, leaning further into Benjen's arm as he trailed on. "Winter is coming." He'd finished, watching in amusement was Ned let out a laugh of his own.
"Winter is coming." Both she and Eddard repeated, nodding solemnly as the familiar words of their house poured from their lips. She'd said the same words so many times that Lyarra was convinced they'd lost their meaning, but they still held a weight in her chest each time. It was only when Robb approached to greet Benjen, that Lyarra allowed herself to slink away from her brothers.
The bite of the cold air was a welcoming gift as she snuck out of the hall. Lyarra perched herself on a bench, watching as the men walked the ramparts. She'd half expected Jon to be out here when she arrived, but the thought that he'd taken an early night to himself wasn't altogether surprising either. Instead, she relished the chance for comfortable silence — until, of course, that was broken by a sharp voice.
"Ah! The Lady Lyarra Stark. What a pleasure it is to finally meet you. The stories do not do you justice, I must say." In truth, Lyarra was growing quite sick of golden-haired men. As the man approached her, she took notice of his stature. There was only one person he could be, due to his height alone.
"You must be Lord Tyrion, then?" She'd greeted, clasping her hands together on the wooden table to capture a bit of warmth. As he came closer, he'd taken her greeting as a warm welcome, placing himself on the bench across from her.
"My, is it that obvious?" He'd questioned, mock-offense littering his tone. For the first time in hours, Lyarra found herself struggling not to grin.
"All you Lannisters have the same hair. It's harder not to point you out." Sarcasm was heavy in her words, and she found herself longing for a drink to hide her smile in. As if he sensed her thought, Tyrion offered his cup of wine — presenting it as if he no longer wanted it. She had half the heart to wave him off, before she'd nodded and took it from his hands.
"Oh, of course. The hair! Not the 'impish' bits, at all."
"I've seen shorter." Lyarra admitted, shrugging as she took another sip of the wine. Her words brought an honest cackle out of the man, loud enough that she had to struggle not to startle where she sat. After she'd calmed, she found a giggle building its way in her chest.
"You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe."
Lyarra only guffawed at his words, glancing longingly down at the now-empty cup of wine. As Tyrion noticed her now solemn state, he let out his own roar of laughter. Within minutes, the two were leaning against the table with tears in their eyes.
"You two sound like a couple of fucking' drunks." A voice called out, then, harsh stomps following. It sounded distantly familiar, yet it was harsher than anything she'd heard in years. Lyarra forced herself to look up, taking in the large man's form. It was the man from earlier, who now only carried the helm in the crevice of his arm. Due to the lack of light in the yard, she couldn't properly see his face.
"Takes a drunk to know a drunk, Clegane." Tyrion's words shot a chill through Lyarra's body, and although the effects of the liquor began to take hold of her — she forced her eyes to narrow on the man's features. The name Clegane was familiar, forcing Lyarra to return back to years prior. To Lord Whent's tourney at Harrenhal. She remembers the fear in her heart as Gregor Clegane approached her, and then the overwhelming relief as she was saved by a smaller boy. One with burns littering his cheek, and eyes that appeared to stare back at her in this very moment. The man in front of her was the boy she'd been longing to find all throughout the tourney, Lyarra realized suddenly. The thought was almost sobering, but his glare was enough to muddle her brain.
The man before her seemed harsher than the boy who had come to her aid. His glare was heavy, though if she looked close enough — into the light of familiarity she had seen before in his eyes, she could see his own youth peaking through the cracks. Lyarra couldn't help the smile that came to her lips, as relief at finally finding the boy after years flooded through her. Her expression seemed to only further worry the man, and she only looked away when Tyrion coughed expectantly.
"And, as a drunk, I can say with confidence that it would appear that our lady is rather inebriated. Would you mind?" Lyarra could distantly make out, as she rested her temple against the cool wood of the table. She'd felt so many emotions within the past few moments that it was hard to hold back her exhaustion now, and she felt sleep over coming her. Before her eyes could properly shut, she felt herself being raised into the air — pressed against someone's chest. The chain-mail pressing into her sent chills through her body, and Lyarra found herself leaning into the warmth of whoever had been carrying her.
Distantly, she noticed the familiar feeling of her quilts, as she was seemingly placed within her bed. Just as quickly as the warmth had arrived, it disappeared. Lyarra was left to curl into her furs, and she couldn't fight back the sleep that overtook her this time.
The remaining days of the King's stay were just as dreadful as the days leading up to it. Lyarra knew, the morning after his arrival, that her brother had decided to go back with him to King's Landing. He'd been standing in front of her door, silent as ever, as she'd gone to make her way to the yard for the morning. His presence was enough to startle her, and she had to clutch her dress to calm herself.
"Forgive me, sister. I don't know how long I've been out here. Hours, maybe. I didn't want to disturb you, but.." Ned trailed off, avoiding her gaze as he readjusted his furs. Lyarra's own head was pounding after the night before, and she could hardly make out his words — but she did her best to focus, moving to place a comforting hand on her brother's arm. "I wouldn't ask this of you, had I another choice. I've asked too much of you as it is, I know that already."
Lyarra's heart went cold, as the implications of his words sunk in. He intended for her to come to King's Landing with him, with his daughters. He only looked further from her as she admitted her realization. She took her hand from his arm as quickly as she'd placed it, moving to curl around herself instead. She'd have to leave Winterfell, leave the only home she'd ever known. She'd have to leave Jon. That alone was enough to have Lyarra shaking her head in denial, stepping back from the man in despair. She couldn't leave him, not in Winterfell. Not alone. Reyne would be coming with them to serve as Sansa's handmaiden, but Jon? A bastard had no place in the royal court, something that Lyarra knew all too well.
"Maester Luwin came to me last night, just after the feast ended. He wants to join the Watch, Lyarra. Told Benjen so himself. He'll be safe among them. You know that, as well as I do. He'll be better off on the Wall, than here." Ned did his best to placate her, leaning down then to place his hands on her shoulders. She only shook her head, forcing herself to not allow tears to fall.
"He's just a boy, Ned. He's not ready for the Watch. I'll never see him again." Her words were panicked, jumbled rambles coming from her lips as her hands began to shake. In an instant, she was met with overwhelming warmth — as Eddard wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him. She couldn't help the tears that came then, as she all but sobbed in her brother's arms. "You can't. Please, Ned. Please, don't do this."
"I don't have a choice. I wish I did. I wish I was not asking this of you, but I am. I need your help." Eddard pulled back, wiping the pad of his glove against her cheeks as she closed her eyes to keep her tears at bay. "The Lannisters .. They had something to do with Jon Arryn's death, I know it. Robert needs my help, now more than ever. And I need yours." The revelation that the Lannisters could have done something so dastardly only had Lyarra's head shaking in disbelief. It was only when she peeled her eyes open, and was met with the true despair in Ned's eyes — that she knew he was telling the truth. He believed all that he was saying.
Lyarra couldn't bring herself to say anything then, only choosing to stand upright as she wiped the tears from her eyes. Eddard retreated then, telling her to think about it — though they both knew he wasn't giving her a choice.
Since that day, Lyarra had not left Jon's side. A fact that he seemed both grateful of, and annoyed by in equal measure. He did not know the life he was giving away. How could he, after all? She tried her best to not resent Benjen for the boy's decision, knowing that it was his alone to make — but if she found herself keeping away from her brother for a few days, that was her business alone. Jon was never her son. He was not her boy, though she would never see him as anything less. The fact alone only made his departure harder to handle.
Each night, once she was certain Jon was asleep, Lyarra would meet Tyrion Lannister in the yard. Despite her brother's best wishes, Lyarra couldn't force herself to be wary of the little lion. Some nights he would leave early to visit the closest brothel he could find. Other nights, they would be joined by the man from the previous night — the man she'd only come to know as 'Clegane'. Those nights, he would drink at Tyrion's side, chiming in only to let out a harsh laugh, or grunt. Despite how little she knew about the man, Lyarra couldn't hold back her fascination. More often than not, the man would scowl as she stared after him — likely assuming the worst. Yet Lyarra's face never held much more than a light smile, as she glanced over his features.
One night, when Tyrion had already slunk off, it was just the two sitting side-by-side on the bench. They hadn't spoke a word to one another, only passing the bottle back and forth when one needed a refill. After another beat of silence, the man grunted — sliding off of the bench as if to make his retreat.
"Oh, er— Ser!" She called after him, climbing off of the bench in haste to catch him before he disappeared into the darkness. He'd turned back to her hesitantly, as if he wasn't sure she was calling for him. When he noticed her focus, he only grimaced — forcing another swig down his throat.
"I'm no Ser," His words a familiar repetition of those that she'd heard years prior, and that alone was enough to shoot vigor through her. She only moved closer to him, a fact that made the large man seemingly shrink in on himself.
"So, it was you, then. You were at the tourney. You saved me that night, from Ser Gregor." Lyarra whispered in wonder, her eyes widening as she processed her own words. She'd been looking for the man for so long, that it was almost laughable that they'd reunited here — now.
"The fucks' it matter?" The man's words were harsh, but they alone were not enough for Lyarra to back down — and again, she took a step towards him, properly taking in his features. He was just as fascinating to her now, as he had been all those years ago.
"I'd like to know your name, if you'd let me. I've only known you as 'Clegane' for all these years." The name itself seemed to force the man to flinch, and he moved to stand taller as he remembered himself. Again, silence stretched between them. Lyarra had half the mind to question if she had overstepped, before the man turned on his heel. He took no more than four steps, before he paused.
"Sandor," he called over his shoulder, the name rough on his lips — as if he hadn't spoken it in years. With that, he was gone, and she couldn't have caught up to him if she wanted to. She tried the name on her lips a few times, before she turned to retreat to her own chambers. That night, she went to sleep a little lighter — a familiar name on her lips, and a certain weightlifted from her shoulders.
The day that Ned had left to hunt alongside Robert-- with Benjen and Robb in tow, Lyarra had been practicing with Theon in the yard. Catelyn had advised her against any swordplay while the King was their guest, but she paid the woman no mind. Theon was not the most proficient with a blade, but Lyarra relished the chance to spend time with him regardless. The boy was still harsh — particularly unkind to Jon. But she forced herself to push resentment aside. He was just a boy. And regardless of his less-than desirable attitude, she couldn't help but care for him.
The two were only disrupted by a familiar grunt. Lyarra asked the boy to clean up, as she made her way to Tyrion. He was perched on a set of steps, leaning his head against a wooden door — with furs draped over him. He was hungover, no doubt, but her figure blocking the sun in the slightest seemed to flood him with relief.
"Well, don't you just look lovely, my Lord Tyrion." Lyarra settled on his right, placing herself on the step just below him. He barely raised a brow at her, before leaning back against the door.
"Not all of us can handle our liquor as well as you, my Lady. Though, if I recall, you were the one who needed Clegane to carry you through your own castle." Tyrion grumbled out, though his words held no heat. Lyarra, however, felt heat course through her. She had thought it was Sandor who carried her to her bed, but she wasn't certain. Tyrion snickered to himself, as the two were interrupted by a rough stomp. Sandor all but threw himself down by the two, fastening his boots as he glanced over them both.
"Rough night, Imp?" He grunted after a moment, seemingly taking amusement at the disheveled state of the man. Tyrion only groaned, squinting to look at Sandor.
"If I get through this without squirting from one end or the other, it'll be a miracle." Came his eventual reply, and Lyarra only just barely cringed at his description. Sandor let out a noise that bordered on another grunt, and a laugh — at her expression.
"I didn't take you for a hunter, my Lord." Never once did the honorifics slip, though Lyarra had grown increasingly comfortable in the man's presence. Tyrion seemed to lean towards the direction of her voice, but didn't properly open his eyes to address her.
"On the contrary, my Lady, I am the greatest in the land. My spear never misses." Sandor, seemingly displeased at Tyrion's response, only grunted — standing to unsheathe his dagger.
"It's not hunting if you pay for it." He admonished, turning to Lyarra with a curious look. She had half the heart to question it, before she noticed Theon making his way towards her brother. Lyarra paused then, standing before turning back to the two men at her side.
"I wish you both good fortune." She declared, her gaze lingering on Sandor for a moment longer than necessary — before she bid them farewell, moving to follow Theon towards her brother. She delivered similar wishes to her brothers, making her way inside as they departed. The rest of her afternoon was spent at Reyne's side, as she, Sansa, and Catelyn were all sitting together. In the back of her mind, she thought over the location of the Queen — but made no motion to question her whereabouts. Catelyn seemingly had a similar thought, as she scanned over the hall. It was only when they heard a desperate cry ring through the castle, that any of them moved.
Brandon had been discovered in the courtyard, unconscious — and alone. No doubt, he'd fallen from the wall he'd climbed so often. Lyarra did not allow herself to cry, and only moved to help the boy — if only so that his mother herself did not have to do so. Once Bran was safely placed in his bed, with Maesters pushing the women out of the room, Lyarra allowed herself to shed a tear. In an instant, Catelyn was in her arms — shedding tears of her own.
She wasn't certain how long the two sat, wrapped in one another, muddled in their own sorrow. The only thing ringing through Lyarra's mind was the thought of how unfortunate it was, that she'd only once again found a sister through grief.
First proper episode of Game of Thrones.. AND a Sandor introduction. Guys are we winning or what. I loved writing this chapter and I am not sorry about it. Lyarra loves her two children (who aren't at all her children) so much. Theon as well, sometimes.
So. Lyarra can't hold her alcohol. Tyrion is too easy to drink with. Jon wants to leave. Ned does not want to leave. And Jaime is being weird ... what a great set-up! Stay tuned btw.. Reyne's storyline is not as predictable as I am setting it up today.
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. And as always, feel free to leave any comments you have.
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Maesters flew in and out of the small room as another fit of wailing rang through the air. Jon, a boy no older than three now, had come down with the Pox. An illness that could take any man it wished, let alone a defenseless babe. Lyarra hadn't slept in weeks, knowing that any moment could be his last. She did not fear contracting the illness herself, only the thought of being away from him. Catelyn had not left his bedside either — a fact that Lyarra found surprising all things considered. She had despised the boy, and made it clear every time he had entered the room. Lyarra tried her best to not hold it against the woman, reasoning that if the roles were reversed, she would be the same — however untrue that felt. But at that moment, Catelyn wouldn't take her eyes off of the boy. If Lyarra looked close enough, she could almost see a flicker of guilt within them.
True to her word, Lyarra raised the boy as her own. He was a Stark in all but name. Ned had taken the boy as his son, having him taught among the other Stark children. During the days, Jon would train alongside Robb — the two, thick as thieves. Oftentimes they were joined by Theon, the remaining son of Balon Greyjoy — whom her brother had taken on as a ward. Yet, Theon did not seem to care much for Jon. Nor vice versa, however young they may be. A flicker of resentment coursed through Lyarra whenever she saw the two interact, yet she knew it was foolish to despise such a child. Theon felt just as much of an outsider as Jon was made to be, yet he was all but accepted wholly as one of their own. The Greyjoy boy, however, had no such luck. When Robb had other duties to attend to, Lyarra would spend her evenings training the two boys.
She'd become proficient with a blade, only further improving after the years of war. Benjen had taught her throughout the nights for years, and oftentimes they would not cease until the sun began to rise. Eddard had initially not been pleased with this arrangement, nor Catelyn for that matter, but Lyarra would listen to no such argument. After the death of her sister, Lyarra demanded that she not be married off like a prize — as Lyanna had been. Regardless of what it meant for the family name, she would not have her fate repeated. It had been an uphill battle to convince him, but after years of begging — he'd reluctantly agreed. Lyarra Stark was not to be wed to any man against her will, nor was she to live anywhere beyond the walls of Winterfell.
Benjen, however, had left their ancestral home within a year of Ned's return. The day that he told Lyarra he was swearing himself to the Night's Watch came as no surprise. She'd been expecting it, dreading it even, since the Tourney. The moment his eyes filled with light once he'd heard of the Watch, she knew it was only a matter of time. Lyarra was not losing Benjen properly, yet it felt to her as if she was. He would not return for some time, and never with haste. She did not make him promise to return home in due time, only that he would answer her ravens. In so little time, he had grown to love Jon as she had. The feeling seemed mutual, as Jon oftentimes would wake and instantly begin to search for the older man. She dreaded breaking the news to the boy. That one of the only men who accepted him as he was, intended on leaving — with no return in mind. Lyarra did not watch as he left, nor did anyone ask her to. She'd had quite enough of goodbyes, all things considered. Instead, she locked herself away in her chambers — reading some fable of nonsense to her boy.
Jon was not a difficult boy. His heart was too big for his own good. More than once, Lyarra had observed him giving up his own blade so that the younger children of Winterfell could have a turn to spar. Lyarra did her best to steer him in a proper direction, so that he would learn to love not only those around him — but himself as well. However, the boy seemed self-sacrificial even from a young age. He would do anything for his family, regardless of the fact that they likely would not do the same for him. His nights were spent in Lyarra's chambers, a fact that was decided the day he'd been brought to Winterfell. Within a days time, he had a small cot in the corner of the room facing her own. He'd only found his own separate quarters when Old Nan had been moved to a smaller room. Jon's absence made the room almost suffocating. The first night that he'd slept outside of her room, for the first time in years Lyarra found herself sneaking out of the castle.
The path to the clearing had become overgrown with years of neglect, yet the road itself was still engraved in her mind. Once the stump was within sight, Lyarra's gaze trained in on it, yet she hesitated when light came into her view. There in the center, stood a fire. A campfire, at that. Surrounding the flames sat four clear figures, with two resting at their side in heaps of furs. Wildings, she thought with a shiver. She'd never seen one, not with her own eyes. Benjen's ravens described them as beastly creatures, more animal than man. They raped, pillaged, and slaughtered as they saw fit. However, as Lyarra watched the figures dance about around the flames — singing gleefully in a tongue that she did not understand, she couldn't help but think they were just people, as she was. Her observation was cut short when a rough, calloused hand grasped the back of her furs. She was pulled into the light, then, and at once all raucous ceased. Instead, each and every head — even the ones who were previously asleep, turned to gaze at her in wonderment and distrust.
The hand who had drug her belonged to a boy who couldn't be more than eight years Jon's elder. His hair was bright as fire, with light-blonde wisps painted throughout the mane. His eyelashes were white, something that Lyarra was not quite certain she'd seen before. The most memorable thing about the boy, however, was how tall he stood. He was large for a boy his age, seeing as how he'd almost matched Lyarra in height. However, he carried himself as if he were a giant. Once she'd seen enough of him, her head whipped back to the surrounding crowd. No one had spoken, the forest eerily silent beyond the crackling of the flames. Lyarra's throat was dry, and she resisted the urge to cough with a heavy breath. All at once, the silence of the night was broken. Another man stepped forward. One with a thick, matted brown — maybe blonde, in some lights — braid, reaching down to his lower back. He had the marks of an older man, however his eyes still held youth to them. She did not doubt that he was her elder, yet not by much. He leaned then, narrowing his eyes as he moved into her space.
"Who are you?" His accent was rough, as if he were only trying the words out for the first time. She did not doubt that he was not entirely fluent in the Common Tongue, but he was more sure of himself than someone speaking an entirely foreign language would have been. His inquiry brought a grimace to Lyarra's lips, as she furrowed her brow at him.
"No one. Just a traveler passing through. I apologize for disturbing your night, my friends." Her voice was elevated higher than it should have been, betraying the fear lying in wait. Her hesitation only probed the man further, as he knelt in front of her face — taking her chin into his hand. They sat like that for a moment too long, the man scanning over her features while Lyarra did her best to not shiver at the intensity of his gaze. The boy with red hair was still holding her arms back, though he'd loosened his grip at the glance of the man in front of them.
"A traveler with the mark of a Southron house on her clothes," he poked at the wolf that had been sewn into her leathers. Originally, Eddard had protested when she decided she no longer wanted to dress as a lady of the court. Yet, as she had with most things, she did it anyway. He only allowed her to do so properly once she'd agreed to wearing her furs overtop them, alongside having their crest sewn into all that she wears. "'Stark' isn't it? The wolves?" Lyarra searched his tone for anything akin to mocking, but his eyes were imploring her to speak. He was curious, above all else. Once she'd realized that he'd been waiting for a proper answer, she tugged out of the boy's grasp to stand on her own.
"What does it matter?" Her question came before her tongue could catch it. Remembering herself, Lyarra's eyes widened but a fraction. This only further amused the man, as he stood to face her properly. He looked over her once again, this time taking in her full form.
"I'd like to know when a wolf enters my woods. A pretty one or no." His words caused a ripple of snickers to echo through the camp, though a snap of his head silenced them just as quickly. Her breath caught in her throat, choosing to look at those surrounding her rather than the man who'd been addressing her. His stance wasn't threatening, however, instead his arms were wide as if to welcome her. "I am Gogni, of the Free Folk. Gogni Frostbiter, to those among us."
Lyarra raised a brow as he continued. She wasn't surprised that the Free Folk despised such a title as 'Wildlings', though she'd never known one to outright claim it the way he had. He seemed proud, and for once she'd found herself envious of a stranger. Gogni, as he'd introduced himself, belonged with the Free Folk — he knew his station, claimed it with honor. Lyarra had never had the chance to do that. She often felt like an outsider in her own house, in her own body even. It was then, that she'd noticed the beat of silence stretching across the came. She'd been staring at him, observing him, for far longer than what was deemed appropriate. With a light cough, she turned her gaze back to the dirt.
"Lyarra Stark, if you must know." After a moment, she willed herself to step forward — glancing around at the clearing that she'd come to know as a second home. "What brings you here?" Her question was met with an impatient raise of Gogni's brow. He seemed unimpressed by her, and the thought almost had her retreat into herself consciously. Lyarra stood tall, raising her chin as if she weren't perturbed by his judgment.
"Are these your woods? Did you plant these trees? Were you here to watch them grow?" Gogni approached her, then, his gaze bordering on something predatorial. Lyarra could not will herself to meet his gaze, instead choosing to focus on the distant flames — the familiar crackle of the heat. "Answer me, Wolf. Are these woods yours? Have you claimed them as your own?" Before she had the chance to move, Gogni grabbed her chin — all but forcing her to face him. His eyes narrowed in on her, as her breath escaped her in one powerful sweep.
"They're not any more yours than they are mine." After but a moment came her biting reply. Gogni had almost seemed enthused by her reaction, leaning closer into her space. He was examining her then as he had before, searching for something within her that she was not entirely sure she had possessed.
"Very well, then, my Little Wolf. We'll share them." His words held a question within them, an expectance of her cooperation. She'd had no choice in the matter, if she chose to think properly, however she found herself dreading the thought of their absence as well. She felt watched, uncomfortably scanned over — and yet she did not feel wholly unsafe. For once, the gaze of a man did not make her shrink back, rather she felt empowered.
That night, she sat with the Free Folk by the warmth of their fire. They did not return to dancing and singing as they had before, but they were not hesitant to speak with her. The respect she had given them had seemed to go a long way within the group. They'd offered her food, meat from what appeared to be some large woodland beast — but she'd denied it with a light wave of her hand. The boy from earlier sat by her side, telling her every tale he could think of. He told her of the Giants he'd seen, of the beasts he'd taken on already. All things considered, Lyarra was half convinced the boy had enjoyed hearing himself talk more than anything. All the while, Gogni had not taken his eyes off of her. Lyarra did her best to not shrink under his gaze, yet the intensity of it made it difficult to pull her eyes away from.
Not long before the sun came up, the Red-haired boy had made his departure. She watched as he left, taking note of his thunderous steps. It was a wonder the rest of the camp had managed to sleep as soundly as they were, when he all but stomped around.
"Tormund." Came a voice from across the fire. As Lyarra dragged her attention back to it, she noticed Gogni staring back at her. "He likes you. Called you She-Wolf when you weren't listening. He's loud, and a bit of a fool. But he's not easy to gain the approval of." His words were hushed, and Lyarra found herself leaning closer to hear him properly. After a beat, he'd stood up for just a moment before properly placing himself at her side. Their knees were touching, and the heat swarming off of him was enough for her to lean into his side as unnoticeably as she could.
"He's.. an interesting boy." Came her eventual reply. Gogni picked his head up quickly as if he wasn't expecting her to answer. Again, he searched her eyes — looking desperately for something that Lyarra found herself wanting to help him find. He looked at her then, as if she had fascinated him. The thought brought heat to Lyarra's neck, and she did her best to avoid his stare.
"Will you come back?" He'd asked, once the sun had begun to properly rise. He helped her to her feet, his rough hands clasping onto her own with fervor. She'd held onto his hand for a beat too long, before retreating backwards. She'd need to make her trip home with haste, if she was to return before anyone noticed her absence. As she turned to make her way back, she found herself pausing just before the tree line.
"Will you be here?" Lyarra found herself questioning underneath her breath, turning back to face the man who had not moved an inch. He met her question with a grin, barring his teeth as if he were a beast himself. He did not attempt to move any closer to her, yet even from his distance Lyarra found herself suffocating.
"For you, my Little Wolf? I'll be here."
"Then, yes. I'll come back."
True to her word, every night once the moon began to shine over the stone of Winterfell, Lyarra would sneak back through the forest. Some nights Gogni would not talk to her much at all, instead tending to those in his party. Those nights, Tormund would not leave her side. As Gogni had told her, he'd taken to calling her 'She-Wolf'. A title that in her mind, made little sense, yet she did nothing to question the boy. If there was one thing about Tormund, it was that he was sure of himself — even when he knew he was wrong, he was confident. A strange boy, Lyarra couldn't help but think.
Other nights, Gogni stuck close to her. Similar to Tormund, he'd tell her of life beyond the Wall. What it looked like when the stars would dance, painting colors through the night sky. Against her better judgement, Lyarra found herself longing to return with them, to see the painted sky for herself.
The numbers within the group often changed. Yet each time she'd returned, Tormund and Gogni would both stand there solemnly, awaiting her arrival. As if they knew she'd be too unfamiliar without them there, they did not dare leave the camp. After a few weeks, Lyarra had managed to convince Gogni to teach her to fight as the Free Folk did. She knew how to swing a blade as a 'Southerner' — as they had named anyone beyond the Wall — did, but she wanted to know more. She found herself valuing the power that women held in the Free Folk, at that moment, as Gogni did not do much more than grunt at her request. She'd even gone on to ask him to teach her their language, so that she could properly speak to the group. Gogni had been more hesitant with this request, but he conceded all the same. Though their lessons were far less frequent, she learned to greet him with common phrases all the same.
Lyarra found herself becoming familiar with the group at an uncomfortably quickened speed. Each time they'd returned, their expressions became less distrusting — less guarded, and more expectant. Tormund had taken to barreling into her the moment she came into view. At first, this had caught her so off-guard that she fell to the ground with a heap of Ginger on top of her. That time, Gogni had done nothing to help her — only chuckling with great power as she struggled to get the boy off of her. By now, however, she knew to expect the barrel of weight, and quickly matched it with her own energy.
Despite her frequent visits, Gogni never took to referring to her by her true name. Instead, she remained his 'Little Wolf. — or sometimes Lya'. He'd greet her with the title just as he bid her goodbye with it. She'd be lying if she said the words hadn't begun to bring a consistent rise of heat through her body each time she heard it. She'd felt for a man before. Petyr was not only her first friend, but the first boy that she'd found herself truly caring for. However, while Petyr was soft and familiar — Gogni was rough, and new. He was something to be explored, something she had yet to properly understand. Oftentimes she felt as if these feelings were matched with equal fervor, yet she ignored the thought altogether. For once, she'd felt as if she'd had a place among someone — and Lyarra was not willing to throw that away for 'childish' adoration.
Once her presence had become frequent enough, she'd been introduced to another member of the group. A babe, with blonde eyelashes and blue eyes — reminiscent of the boy she'd come to know all too well. She was Tormund's kin, no doubt. While she was not 'kissed by fire' the way that he was, her complexion was a mirror-image of his own. She couldn't have been more than a year old, yet when Lyarra began to question the location of the babe's mother, Gogni had silenced her with one dark look. Once the crowd had begun to file away, leaving the child in Lyarra's arms, Gogni had pulled her aside to explain.
Tormund's parents were gone, he'd whispered. Taken by the 'Crows' — a title that Lyarra had come to learn was bestowed upon the men of the Night's Watch. Her own guilt churned within her stomach, as she thought of the possibilities of her own brother being involved. However, his last raven had informed her that he had yet to travel outside of Castle Black — yet the thought continued to cloud her mind. After a while, Tormund had come to collect his sister. For a while, he sat by her and Gogni — telling her stories about who the babe in his arms would grow to be. In turn, she told him of her boy — of Jon.
"You'd like him, I think. He has a bigger heart than anyone I've ever met. Than any of us combined, I'd say." She spoke of her boy wistfully, yet she knew he was safe within Winterfell. The more she spent with the Free Folk, the more she found herself wanting to stay with them. Jon would fit in, she'd think to herself. He would find his place — and the thought that he would finally have one brought a glimpse of hope into her life. Tormund matched her soft grin with one of his own, paired with a gentle nudge to return her from her thoughts. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet, something that had struck Lyarra until his calm voice rang out.
"I'd like to meet him, then. If you'd let me." Once more, his tone was soft— something that she had not been entirely certain he was capable of. She'd agreed in that moment, but the more she thought of bringing Jon to the camp — the more reasons she had found against it. Jon was just a boy. He was not fit for travel, especially not for climbing over the castle walls. She found herself wandering down a dangerous train of thought, one that questioned even the loyalty of those around her. She'd learned to trust the Free Folk, even admire them as if they were her own — but Jon meant more to her than anything she had left. She wouldn't put the boy in any danger, regardless of whether she thought there was any to begin with.
"You think too loud, my Little Wolf. My own head hurts, even just by wondering what goes on in there." Gogni chose to make his appearance known, then, as he perched himself on a log beside Lyarra. Tormund had long since retreated into his own tent, taking his unnamed sister with him. He took a moment to look over her, as if he could sense her inner turmoil. Gogni placed his hand on top of hers then, spreading his warmth throughout her. He'd never flinched away from her cold complexion, and instead it almost seemed to draw him in further.
"I should be returning to Winterfell." Lyarra mumbled in greeting, all but avoiding his eyes. It was earlier than she'd left in the past, and she knew her words were hardly believable — and yet Gogni nodded all the same, standing as if to walk her to the tree-line. Just before they'd reached the edge of the camp, however, Gogni had steered her in a different direction. The sudden shift had Lyarra stumbling, leading to her harshly bumping into the side of the man. He'd only let out a slight grunt, however, and hadn't allowed it to deter him. By the time he stopped moving, they were standing in front of a fur tent. In her time within the camp, Lyarra had never been inside one of their tents. She'd had no reason to, after all. Gogni was still staring at her expectantly, before she begrudgingly threw one of the flaps open and marched inside.
Within a moment, he bounded past her to throw himself onto a pile of furs. In truth, she had become too used to his antics to startle, and instead she chose to place herself down lightly beside him. Noting the contrast, Gogni had let out a harsh chuckle, before he pulled the girl down beside him. After a moment, Lyarra collected herself enough to sit up properly, shooting a harsh glare at the man.
"You're too tense, Lya'. All you do is think." With that, he poked her forehead with his pointer finger. She'd flinched at the contact, but only after the fact. Gogni leaned further into her space, only stopping once the two were close enough for their breath to mingle. "Let yourself be free, my Little Wolf. You deserve it." Lyarra had only shook her head at that, pushing herself backwards with her elbows so that the two had more space.
"I'm here with you now, aren't I? I'm free." She'd muttered, after silence had stretched throughout the tent. Gogni titled his head as if he did not quite believe her, and he took another moment then to lean back himself.
"Only, you're not here, are you? You're somewhere else. You always are. You're never here with us. With me." For the first time, Lyarra heard true aggravation sneak into his tone. The thought caught in her throat, but she did her best to not allow her trepidation to become apparent. She did not fear the man before her, nor had she ever been given a reason to. Yet she found herself tensing all the same, turning then to avoid his glare. Again, Lyarra could hear nothing but her own breath — her chest heaving with tension.
"I don't like being away from Jon." She'd whispered finally, her voice carrying through the furs of the tent. Gogni met her gaze then, imploringly serious. To her knowledge, he'd had no children of his own. However, his stare carried a level of understanding within it. For the second time that evening, he covered her hand with his own — rubbing the tips of his fingers against the lines of her palm.
"Tormund is right, you know. You can bring him here. No one would dare come near the babe. I wouldn't let them." His tone carried a level of finality that Lyarra knew she could trust, and she found herself leaning into his warmth in the slightest. Part of her longed to give into the man, to allow his protection as well as his adoration. She turned to him then, taking in the intensity of his stare. As if sensing her thoughts, he moved closer into her space, repeating his movement from before. His intentions had never been more clear, as his eyes were all but trained on her lips. Yet, Lyarra leaned out of his path all the same.
"I would not ask that of you," Lyarra whispered, her gaze trained on the furs beneath them. Absentmindedly, she ran her fingers through them, allowing her mind to wander as she thought of what sort of beast it came from. It was only when Gogni grasped her chin in his palm, pulling her to face him — that she allowed her mind to go properly blank.
"You're not asking me, my Little Wolf. You never ask me for anything. I doubt you ever will. I am offering." The pad of Gogni's thumb raised then beyond her chin, swiping across her bottom lip in exploration. The touch made Lyarra shiver, a fact that seemed to delight the man before her.
"Why am I here?" Her question came out harsher than intended, but when alarm flashed through Gogni's eyes— as he moved to retreat, she only pushed further into his space, grasping onto his hand so that it would not move from her lip. "You allow me to walk with your people. To eat with you, to hear your stories. To hold your children. Why? What about me fascinates you so?"
Gogni paused then, not as if he hadn't been expecting the question — but almost as if he had been considering it himself. With another swipe of his thumb, his palm came to rest against her cheek. Lyarra found herself leaning into his touch, pressing into his warmth.
"I've never known a wolf to accept her cage as willingly as you have. You did not fight when we labeled you a 'kneeler'. You so eagerly named yourself 'Stark'. And yet, I see in your eyes what I see in the eyes of my people. You want to be free. You want to belong." His words were quiet, thoughtful. Emotion bled through them, as he rasped. "We can give you that. I can give you that, Lyarra Stark, if you let me."
Lyarra would go on to claim that she had a decent amount of self-restraint. Yet, in that moment, she only waited for Gogni to stop speaking — before she lunged to the man, pulling him against her lips with fervor she was not aware she was capable of. It felt as if fire was meeting water. Simultaneously warmth was flooding her body, while ice crept to meet it in equal power. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but Lyarra found herself chasing it all the same. She'd never kissed a man before, and as their lips properly met one another — she was grateful for that fact. Grateful that her first moment of passion was with him, and not a lord that she hadn't chose herself.
The two repeated the motion for what felt like hours. Lyarra only pulled away to catch her breath, leaning against his forehead with a heavy push. Unknowingly, she had found herself perched in his lap — a fact that only further brought pink to her cheeks. Gogni had let out a hearty chuckle when he'd noticed, moving to recapture her lips as his hands gripped her waist. However long they'd sat tangled in one another, he made no attempt to move further. Instead, he'd flipped their position, leaning into her space as she laid on her back against the furs. After a moment, he'd placed one final kiss against her lips, before he climbed over her — placing himself beside her.
A silence had stretched through the tent once again at that, however unlike the previous times it was not an awkward one. This silence was comfortable. Lyarra couldn't help but move further into Gogni's chest, placing one hand on him while her neck curled into the crevice of his arm. She wasn't sure how long the two laid by one another, only the sudden weight on her chest. As her eyes began to droop, she vaguely heard Gogni mutter beside her — promising to wake her before the sun rose.
With the birth of more true-born Starks, Lyarra found herself growing increasingly guilty every time she'd left Winterfell in the night. Robb did not often leave his side, but when he did he wouldn't return for what felt like hours. The Greyjoy boy often trailed after him as well, leaving Jon on his own. He had never claimed that he minded, instead choosing to spend his time with Lyarra as they would have normally. Yet, she saw the hurt lingering in his eyes nonetheless. He wanted to be a proper Stark. To be Ned Stark's true son. As he grew older, he'd only become further aware that this was a fruitless dream.
Each night before she left, she would spend but a minute watching Jon sleep — only leaving once she'd properly seen the consistent rise and fall of his chest. One night she'd returned just before the sun rose, as she normally would have, only to find Jon perched on her bed — staring at the door, as she crept in. His presence was enough for her to jump out of her own skin, before she calmed herself with a palm to her chest. He couldn't sleep, he'd told her. He had a nightmare, and when he'd come to look for her she wasn't there. Once she'd coaxed him back into resting for the remaining hours of the night, Lyarra found tightness creeping into her chest. She felt the tears before she'd noticed they were coming at all. Since that night, Lyarra did not allow herself to leave until she was certain that Jon was asleep.
The more she visited the camp without Jon, the worse she felt. Oftentimes she did not leave Gogni's tent, save for listening to Tormund's rambles by the fire. She spent her evenings encased against the man's chest, as he spun his own stories for her — detailing anything he could think of. Some nights she would cry in his arms, the guilt of leaving her boy behind overtaking her. Each time, he'd reason that she was welcome to bring him — and still she would ignore that fact, choosing to burrow further into his chest.
One evening, Gogni had seemingly had enough of the repetitiveness of their talks. He'd offered to walk Lyarra back to the walls of Winterfell, so that she could retrieve Jon and bring him back to camp. The moment that she let out a light laugh, she knew she had done something wrong. Gogni tensed, moving to push her off of his lap in an instant. Gogni took her amusement as mockery, and Lyarra could do nothing to argue against the point. His ideas were outlandish, possible only for a version of herself that was not as scared as she was for the fate of her boy. The two had fought throughout the night, yet Lyarra did her best to not allow her voice to raise above a whisper.
Once she had returned home just before dawn, Lyarra allowed herself a moment to think. She'd began to trust Gogni with her heart, why couldn't she trust him with that of Jon's? A man who had never appeared to be anything but caring — strong enough to protect them both. The rest of her day was spent fantasizing about what their life could be, if she grew the courage to flee with him. Their lives could mean something. They would have positions of importance among the Free Folk. They would be free. Eddard may never forgive her for being the cause of the loss of both of his sisters — but he'd be begrudgingly gladdened to see her finally happy, she reasoned.
That night, she took a moment longer than necessary watching Jon peacefully sleep. His nose was twitching, black curls ruffling as his breath came sharply through his nose. She'd bring him in the morning, she decided. Her night would be spent with Gogni, if not solely to get his approval — to fully rally herself for the decision ahead. The trip beyond the walls of the castle was familiar as always, but Lyarra felt herself holding her head high for the first time. By the time dawn had arrived, she would never have to sneak beyond these walls again. She would be allowed her freedom.
As she approached the tree-line, she couldn't help but notice the overwhelming heat bursting from within the forest. Her skin felt hot for the first time, goosebumps met with an unsettling mixture of warmth. However, the light was the first thing she properly noticed. Similar to the night that she had been introduced to the clan, she could recognize the rising flickering of flames in the distance. Instantly, Lyarra picked up her speed ten-fold. In but a moment, she had reached the opening within the trees. Each and every tent was in flames, with furs strewn about. There were corpses littering the dirt, corpses of Free Folk that she had come to know well.
As she scanned through the rubble in horror, her gaze trained on one familiar bloodied figure. Gogni. Before she could stop herself, Lyarra rushed to him, running her hands over him to search for the cause of his pain. Instead of being met with a pained expression, however, Gogni was all smiles. His teeth shined so bright that the blood dripping into his mouth was impossible not to notice.
"Ah, ha— My Little Wolf. A lucky sight, for a dying man." Gogni rasped, blood spitting from between his teeth as he bit the words out. Lyarra couldn't bring herself to do much of anything besides grasp onto him. Her words were stuck within her throat, bile rising as tears began to burn down her cheeks. "Come, Stark. It's alright. Don't weep for me." He raised his hand to her cheek, and similar to their first contact — Lyarra jumped into his touch. She held his palm against her face, pressing him closer.
"What happened? Who did this to you?" Lyarra felt her focus slipping, her vision quickly becoming hazy with tears. For the first time in her life she had found true freedom-- true joy, and now it was being stripped from her. A selfish thought, as bodies littered through the camp— yet it was stuck in her mind anyway. She lifted his tunic then to visit his wounds, but halted her motions when Gogni moved his hand to place over hers. With a sharp nod, he interlocked their fingers and moved them back to her cheek.
"Crows. Came in the night. I was waiting for you, by the edge of the tree-line. Should've been here. But, after last night. I wasn't sure.." Gogni trailed off then, looking beyond her to gaze at the rising flames. She couldn't stay much longer. She knew that, as well as he did. Yet she made no movement to leave, instead curling against him. He let out a light grunt at her actions, but quickly placed his hand on the back of her head — petting her hair, as she couldn't help but wail in his arms. "Lyarra, you can't stay here. They'll be back, and they can't see a Stark with us."
"I can't just leave you," She argued, sitting up then only to glare at the dying man before her. She knew, then, just how much she still wanted to tell him. How little she'd been able to express, as it was. How was she meant to leave him to die alone? He would never have done that to her. He would have sat by her side, cradling her head as he did now. Tormund would've joined him as well, no doubt. A flash of horror flickered through her at the thought of the red-haired boy. "Tormund." Lyarra breathed, and in an instant she watched as familiar terror ran through Gogni. He was their leader, the protector of their clan— and here he lied in a pile of his own blood, with no true idea of where his people were.
Before she could think better of it, Lyarra was on her feet. She tore through every fur she could find, even the ones littered with flames. She did not dare to stop, until she heard grunting in the distance — followed by the clashing of steel. In an instant, Lyarra chased after the sound. There, just beyond the trees stood Tormund, with a babe in one arm and a blade in the next. Lyarra rushed forward then, grabbing a forgotten blade on the ground before slashing towards the man Tormund had been fighting. After a moment, horror dawned on Lyarra — as she realized the true extent of what she had done. As the man fell to the ground, she recognized the black cloak coating his shoulders. He was a 'Crow', a man of the Night's Watch. One of her people, no doubt. However, as she turned her attention back to the boy with red hair, she couldn't feel guilt rise to her chest. Tormund wobbled on his feet, as Lyarra rushed to catch him.
"Thought you'd left us for good this time, She-Wolf. Didn't expect to see you back here." As far as she could see, there were no lasting wounds on Tormund. He had only a few cuts littering his cheeks, ones that would no doubt leave a scar — but weren't fatal by any means. Nonetheless, she held the boy's face in her hands. Before she could do much else, she was met with a harsh shove — and a thick bundle placed in her arms. There, sat Tormund's sister. Lyarra glanced up to the boy, who now stood tall with a blade secure in his two hands. "Take her. Take her back to your prissy lords, and your cunt of a king. She'll be a kneeler, but at least she'll be alive. And tell your boy, I'm sorry. I would've liked to meet him." With that, Tormund bounded off into the direction of more Crows. She wanted to call after him, clawing at her throat to force some sort of plea to come out. Yet, she could only watch as the remainder of the camp ran off with him.
As the flames continued to rise, Lyarra forced herself to scramble up— a difficult feat with the babe nestled in her arms. By the time she had returned to Gogni, the light had already faded from his eyes. She sank to her knees beside him, leaning to place one final kiss against his solid temple — a prayer in the Old tongue falling from her lips. Once she made her way out of the camp, exhaustion overtook her. Lyarra all but sunk to her knees, leaning to rest against the stone walls of Winterfell. At that moment, the infant in her harms began to rise— cooing to capture Lyarra's attention.
Her sharp blue eyes were the first thing that she noticed about her. Her hair was thin, wispy blonde streaks curling around her temple. She was Jon's opposite in everything but stature. Explaining the babe in her arms would be more difficult than fleeing with Jon in the night would have been, Lyarra thought to herself. She couldn't claim that she was hers, nor could she find a reason to argue for her presence in the first place. The only thing she could hope to do was beg Eddard for her right to stay. Lyarra would stop at nothing to heed Tormund's wishes, to protect the girl in her arms with her life.
All at once, she'd remembered that the infant still had no name. She scoured her memory for anything fitting, any Free Folk name that would suit her. After a moment, 'Reyne' came to mind. It wasn't a common name, nor was it something that stood out unnecessarily. Reyne babbled at that moment, grasping Lyarra's finger in her small palm.
It was ironic, in truth, that Lyarra's only two children weren't hers at all. And yet she would stop at nothing to ensure that the two had a safe life— that they would never struggle. She'd hesitated with her own chance for freedom, but Lyarra would give her life to give her children the right they deserved.
So. That was a lot. Two more of the main characters were introduced.. and then one of them instantly died. Please forgive me. If their relationship seems a bit rushed, it's because it is! Lyarra has never had a proper run-in with love before this moment. Petyr is something else, something way.. more complicated. And yes we have young Tormund! Something I need to preface is that this will have Jon/Tormund as a secondary ship. It won't be the focus, and if you truly despise the pairing you can ignore their sections. But it will be more relevant as the story progresses, especially through the later chapters. To this point, I feel the need to mention that the relationship between Lyarra & Gogni is meant to be a parallel to Tormund & Jon in a way. "My little Wolf, My little Crow, etc." They're very dear to me.
From now on, every chapter will most likely represent one episode. There will be episodes that she won't be present, but for the most part I will try to stick to the show. This fic will likely be a fix-it, so there will be parts that differ from the source material. I am very excited to officially start the proper show-focused part of it. I hope you've enjoyed it so far, and as always feel free to leave any kind of comment below.
The tourney at Harrenhal marked a turning point in the life of Lyarra Stark. Things were not easy between the siblings once they made their return, especially since Brandon was hardly around — and Eddard had once again returned to the Eyrie. Benjen, Lyanna, and Lyarra were left to their own devices. Lyarra made a consistent effort to not sneak out as much, choosing to stay with her sister throughout the night instead. She'd even taken to sharing her bed, only so that she would not have to leave her side. The three children would march around Winterfell, carrying on as if nothing had changed. After the tourney, Benjen seemed to collect himself — moving on from petty grievances, to take a place at his sister's side.
The three had become inseparable within the first week of their return. Everywhere they went, they went together. Lyarra was not certain how much time she'd have left with Lyanna, before she would lose her to Robert. Her sister seemed to know that as well as she did, and made sure that her two siblings were with her at all times. She rarely talked about Rhaegar, as Lyarra feared the topic itself, but when she had — her eyes were distant, longing for something out of her grasp.
The topic of Brandon's wedding shed light on their somber attitudes, though. as they finally had something to look forward to. Lyarra, in particular, longed to return to Riverrun — a thought that would make her younger self wince. Last she'd heard, Petyr was still with the Tullys. He'd have no choice, then, but to talk to her. She'd finally get a proper answer on whether he'd been avoiding her. Though, as much as she longed to see her friend, she was more concerned with her own brother's joy. In truth, she did not know if Brandon and his betrothed cared for one another. Every time that she'd questioned her brother, he'd avoided the topic altogether. Benjen had suggested that there was someone else that he'd given his heart to, that he had not been permitted to marry. Yet, even still Brandon was never overtly expressive with matters of the heart.
However, the idea of a wedding — outside of that of her sister's — brought a sense of expectation to Lyarra. It was a fascinating concept, despite its often barbarish implications. Lyanna, however, did not appear to be as enthused. She'd been happy for her brother, no doubt. But the very thought of a wedding likely only further reminded her of her own. Some nights, Lyarra would observe her sister cradling a winter rose — one that had once littered the crown, she'd assumed. In that moment, she would have given anything to see her sister as joyful as she once had been. She would ride off with her in the night, fleeing the city to live a life of their own. They could make it as some sort of sellswords, no doubt. They'd have to cut off their hair and dress as men, but that wouldn't be the worst thing, in Lyarra's mind. If they were caught, there would be dastardly consequences — but she would accept them head-on for her sister. Benjen held no such fantasy. He'd become too much of a realist of Lyarra's liking, recently.
A month after the tourney, a raven reached Winterfell. Brandon was to be wed in a month. Lyarra and her siblings would need to prepare for travel as soon as possible, seeing as the journey to Riverrun was not overtly short. Lyarra hadn't snuck out in a fortnight, instead spending her nights with Benjen and Lyanna. Their routine had started off almost entirely by accident. Lyarra had spent the night in Lyanna's room, and just before the sun had begun to creep over the hills — the two were disturbed from their slumber by their youngest brother. He hadn't slept a wink, made apparent by the red circles around his eyes. Lyarra let him in within moments, and moved to set up blankets on the ground. As Benjen himself had gone to lay down, she sat by his side. For the remaining weeks until their departure, the three slept side-by-side every night. It'd done nothing to ease their discomfort, as they now woke with an aching back and a bent neck every morning. Yet they felt better than they had in months. Regardless of what was coming, the three had one another.
Lyanna had taken to wearing a winter rose in her gowns. She no longer dressed as the boyish, rough girl that her sister knew all too well. No longer was she allowed to wear leather trousers, instead she was to wear her traditional furs and garments wherever she went. Despite her evident discomfort at such clothing, Lyanna knew better than to argue with her father.
Leaving Winterfell had become such a routine for Lyarra, that she no longer felt such sinking discomfort at doing so. It'd become familiar, and she could easily recall every familiar tree, hill, and building. Again, came the longing feeling in her chest. Soon, she'd see Petyr again. As she rode alongside her brother, she allowed her mind to wander. What would he look like now, after all this time? Was he still the small, sharp-featured boy that she'd come to know all too well? Was he longing to see her again, the way she was him?
Traveling without Eddard left a sour taste in her mouth. It'd only been months since she'd last seen her brother, but it felt wrong to be apart from him for so long. He'd always been the comforting presence that she'd needed for these journeys. Ned had never been the most talkative, but she felt better around him than she did now, at the very least.
In Lyarra's mind, they'd been on the road for months by the time they reached Fairmarket. It was the first proper town that they'd come across, and Lyarra welcomed the opportunity to take a break. Lyanna had been silent for most of their journey, opting to nod along to whatever the others had to say instead. She'd hardly seen Benjen since they left, seeing as he rode ahead with the other men in their party. The moment they had been given a room in a local inn, Lyarra threw herself onto the first mattress she saw.
"That can't be comfortable." The distant voice of her brother rang out. Lyarra only further buried her face into the quilt in response, with an almost silent grunt of aggravation.
"You'd be surprised." Her words were muffled by the fabric, but she knew Benjen could discern them well enough. She had half the mind to turn and glance over at him, before she was cut off by a sudden, sharp weight pushing her further into the mattress. Lyarra whipped her head towards the offending pressure in annoyance, when she saw Benjen draped across her.
"You know, you're actually right! This is pretty comfortable." Benjen emphasized his words with by raising his head and dropping it heavily on her back. She let out an offending grunt, before pushing him off of her with all of her strength.
"You're such an idiot" She grumbled out, choosing to sit up at that moment to brush her hair out of her face. Benjen was still lying on the ground when she had the chance to peak over at him, sprawled out on the floorboards. Somehow, that almost looked more comfortable than the stiff mattresses they were stuck with. Lyarra made a point of tripping over his ankle, before making her way out of the room once she heard a distant yelp of pain from behind her.
Lyanna was sitting outside when she finally found her, perched on a rock — gazing into what little landscape they could see. Lyarra did her best to announce her approach, taking heavy steps in the short distance. Eventually, Lyanna craned her neck to discern who had been walking up to her. When their eyes met, Lyarra could hardly help the gasp that was punched out of her. Her sister's eyes were bloodshot, heavy bags littering them. Lyarra's reaction was instant, lunging towards her to pull her against her chest as the girl's tears returned in waves. She was not certain how long the two sat, cradled in one another's arms. Once she had seemingly collected herself, Lyarra pulled back to wipe the pads of her thumbs against her cheeks.
She did not once stop to ask what was wrong, or if there was any way that she could help — a fact that she would later come to regret. Instead, she held her sister tighter, promising that she would take care of her. Promising that no matter what, the two would face what was to come together.
Sleep evaded Lyarra that night. After the image of her sister's devastated expression came into mind more than once, she'd resigned to the fact that she'd likely get no rest. Instead, she did her best to take quiet steps out of the room, making a quick distance to the same rock that she'd seen Lyanna earlier. She was unaware of how long she sat there, caught in a cascading jumble of her own thoughts, until she heard a door shut behind her.
Her traveling party were not the sole inhabitants of the inn, yet Lyarra couldn't help but spin back to face the offending sound. She was met with the started expression of her sister, who had a leather sack in her arms — eyes wide, like she had been caught in the act of something that Lyarra could not discern.
"What are you doing out here?" The question was barely above a whisper, but the words themselves were sharp. Lyarra raised an eyebrow at her sister's inquiry, choosing then to climb off of the rock and approach her. Lyanna took a step back, a motion that was only made noticeable by the moon shining across her pale complexion.
"I could ask you the same thing." Lyarra sighed, choosing then to scan over the objects that Lyanna had with her. The same winter rose that she'd coveted so closely before — which came as no surprise to Lyarra — a sack of what appeared to be the clothes she'd brought with her for the journey, and a steel blade. The final object gave Lyarra pause, as she moved to grab Lyanna's chin — forcing the girl to meet her gaze.
"You can't be serious. Where are you going?" Lyarra looked over her sister, looking for anything else she could have on her. The concept that her sister planned on leaving in the night, to gods knows where, had her gut reeling.
"Away. Somewhere. To pray, maybe." Lyanna's tone was wistful, and far too calm to satiate Lyarra's nerves. Lyanna had never been one to devote herself to the gods, but when she had it had been at the weirwood tree in Winterfell. Her sister's poorly covered lies only made Lyarra's stomach curl further into a pit.
"What does that mean, Lyanna? Where were you going?" Her words were punctuated with sharp intakes of breath, Lyarra leaning further into Lyanna's line of sight, imploring her to answer anything. Her attempts were to no avail, however, as her sister only stood prouder — chin raised, assured, and unwilling to budge.
"Why does it matter, Lyarra? Am I not allowed one moment to myself? My body won't even be my own anymore, soon enough. I'm not allowed to go anywhere anymore. To even speak to a man alone, let alone my family. I don't need you down my throat, as well." In an instant, the night sky felt suffocating. Lyarra took a sharp breath, stepping back as she furrowed her brow.
"So, what, I'm not allowed to care for my sister anymore? Was I meant to allow you to slink off into the darkness, knowing full well I may never see you again? You don't know what is out there, Lyanna. If you want a night to yourself, take it. I'll sleep in Benjen's room, for all I care. But this?" She pauses, gesturing widely between the two, "This is running away. This is a coward's way out."
"Fine, then. Let me be a coward! I would rather betray my family name than live a life that was not meant for me. I am not meant to be Robert Baratheon's prize, a wolf locked away on a shelf for him to show off when he is drunk enough to remember my existence. As he fucks everything he sees. That is not my life. It is not fair of you to ask me to live it." The two were still speaking hardly above a whisper, but Lyarra's lungs hurt like they had been shouting. Lyanna would not relent, not even to step out of the bubble the two had created.
"No, it's not fair. I wish you were not asked this, I wish this was not your life. I would give anything to take your place, if only so that you would have your freedom. I would leave with you this very moment, if I could." Lyarra took her sister's hands into her own, bending to gaze into her eyes pleadingly.
"You mean it? You'd leave with me now, if I asked?" Lyanna's words were quiet, her tone noticeably hopeful. The shift made Lyarra flinch, as she took a slight step back. She meant it, then. She meant to flee in the middle of the night, while Lyarra herself had been none the wiser. As if Lyanna knew what she was thinking, she took a step foward herself — her features hardening. Lyanna's mind had made up, regardless of what Lyarra had wished. "I would not ask that of you. I would not ask you to leave your life for me, as I chase a fool's dream. Go inside, Lyarra. Rest. The ride to Riverrun is not an overtly pleasant one." With that, Lyanna took a step forward — meaning to walk past her sister, and keep going. Before she could step out of her range, Lyarra grasped onto her wrist.
"Do you take me for a fool? I would never leave you, especially when I know you intend to flee in the night." Her words were harsh, sharper than she meant to be — as she dug her nails into Lyanna's wrist. She did not stop until she heard a resounding hiss, which inspired Lyarra to pull her back to her. "Please, please don't go. Please, Lyanna." She knew well enough that she was begging, her tone closer to pathetic than it had ever sounded before. This gave Lyanna pause, and she couldn't help the warm hope that flowed through her chest.
"Please, don't ask me to stay. If you won't leave with me, just let me go. I need to go." Lyarra hadn't noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks until Lyanna wiped one away, pressing her palm gently into the side of her face. Lyarra leaned into the touch in an instant, desperate to keep her sister close to her in any way that she could. She wanted to fall to her knees and beg, plead for Lyanna to not leave her. She couldn't bare the thought of living without her, of suffocating within the all-encompassing walls of Winterfell without her by her side.
"Lyarra, look at me. This is not my life. I am not meant for this. I wish, for you, that it could be. But it isn't. So let me go. Go back to our room, rest your eyes. In the morning they'll ask where I am. Say you don't know. Please, Lyarra." At that, Lyanna had to pull Lyarra against her to muffle her tears. The two would be found, sooner or later. They only had so much time, and Lyarra was becoming all too aware of this. "Do this for me, sister. I promise you, I will see you again. I swear it." Lyarra said nothing, only cowering further into her sister's chest. She was too cowardly to protect her the first time, but if this was what it took to give Lyanna the life she wanted — Lyarra nodded through her tears, muttering loose promises through her lips. The childlike hope in Lyanna's eyes made it worth it.
For the first time in years, Lyarra saw the young Lyanna staring back at her. The version of her that she had been longing to reach, that she had been longing to bring back — at what ever cost necessary. This was the cost, she supposed. She would lose her sister, if only to protect what was left of her. She knew that her brothers would likely not forgive her for this, if they found out. The thought made her stomach churn uneasily, as she tried to swallow down her tears.
Their goodbyes were short, gone before Lyarra's mind could properly catch up with itself. Lyanna kissed her forehead as if they were once again children, and Lyarra watched as her figure faded until she was nothing more than a shadow in the distance. She found her bed as quickly as she had abandoned it, and did her best to not make her cries audible — as she buried her face in the quilt for the second time that day.
Once the disappearance of Lyanna Stark had spread through the area, the remainder of their journey to Riverrun was rushed. What should have taken well over a fortnight took no longer than a week. Lyarra couldn't say that she was surprised. They didn't want to risk the disappearance of the other two siblings, not when rumor had it that Rhaegar Targaryen had been the one to 'abduct' Lyanna to begin with. She wasn't caught off guard by the thought, not entirely. Lyanna went willingly, to that there was no doubt — but the way that she had caressed the winter rose came to Lyarra's mind. She knew she would be meeting Rhaegar, wherever it had been that they had found one another.
Part of Lyarra was comforted by the fact that Lyanna had the opportunity for true happiness with the man, and the other part of her — the part fighting for dominance of her — felt ill at the very thought. She knew, all too well, what was to come. Lyanna was betrothed, and Rhaegar Targaryen had ignored this claim entirely — ignored his own wife, at that. Robert would not allow this to pass unpunished.
Benjen had attempted to reach out to her on the remainder of their journey more than once, but Lyarra did not spare him more than a blank smile. She could not manage much more than that, she thought. This was her fault. Had she simply pulled her sister back, convinced her not to go, they would not be in such peril. But she hadn't. She chose her sister's freedom, and this was the result of it.
The moment that the walls of Riverrun came into view, Lyarra all but rushed to the doors. In a flash, she was across the drawbridge and thought the doors. Her movements were wild, as she tore down every door until she found who she was looking for. Once her eyes caught onto him, she dashed forward — burying herself in the older man's furs. Brandon was stiff, hesitation embedded in every movement. However she paid his reluctance no mind, as she only pulled him closer to her. After a beat, his resolve crashed — as he dropped to his knees to wrap his arms around her, burying his nose into her hair. The two sat like that for far longer than necessary, a moment reminiscent of the night that she'd cried in his arms. Only this time, the two were just as afraid as the other.
Every waking moment after that she stayed by her brother's side. Even Catelyn, his intended, had seemed to understand that — as that night, she'd offered for Lyarra to stay with him, claiming that she'll sleep in her own quarters. Lyarra knew better than to accept her offer, however, and chose to spend her night in Benjen's room — as she had been doing for months. The boy accepted her back welcomingly, only hesitating for but a moment before allowing her in.
It was when she woke up, that she began to realize she'd yet to see Petyr. It was hardly the time to create a stir for him, however. She'd only had the chance to ask when she had caught Catelyn alone. The question was timid, yet Catelyn responded as if she knew she'd been intending to ask since she'd arrived. Petyr had been sent back to the Fingers, not too long ago. According to her, Petyr and Brandon had gotten into a quarrel of some kind — though, as much as Lyarra questioned, Catelyn would not divulge the details of their fight. Only that it had not ended pretty, and it was decided that he would return home. This fact alone was enough for Lyarra to sink further into her own sorrows.
At the moment where she needed him the most, Petyr was gone. To no fault of his own, she'd assumed — yet she couldn't help the sting that burned in her chest. She had half the mind to send him a raven, but couldn't bring herself to write to him. Another ignored letter would only cause her further pain, she decided. It was not worth the trouble.
The concept of time seemed to become a foreign thought to Lyarra after that. She could hardly keep up any longer. Brandon was riding to King's Landing, alongside their father. The day that he left, she had properly expelled all of her remaining tears into his pelt — leaving him with a half-soaked tunic. He took her face in his palm as he promised to return. Her father made no such promise, only grasping onto her chin similarly to Brandon. As the two rode away, Lyarra allowed her legs to give out underneath her, collapsing into Benjen as he did his best to hold her up.
She did not let the younger boy out of her sight, from that day on. Just before she had begun to settle for the night at his side, a knock came at the door. Brynden Tully chose to appear then, a man who had previously made himself scarce. It was evident then, just how uncomfortable the man was with his own presence — as he approached the two siblings. They were to return to Winterfell, with haste. Eddard would likely be there by the time that they returned, and until further notice they were not to leave their ancestral home. Lyarra thanked the man, asking him to send her thanks to his nephew Edmure as well — suddenly feeling rather guilty for the way she had treated him. Catelyn bid the two siblings farewell, as Lyarra made a point to assure her that Brandon would return — if not for duty, simply because he had promised. Her words likely did nothing to satiate Catelyn's nerves, though she sent an appreciative smile nonetheless.
It wasn't until they had returned to the snow-ridden castle of Winterfell, that Lyarra's world properly came crashing down around her. Once she'd entered the gate, she'd scoured the courtyard for the first sight of her brother — warmth enveloping her as she finally caught his eye, only to be frozen in fear as she noticed his expression. He was devastated, grief hovering over him like a shadow. She gazed into the depths of his eyes, brow furrowed as she tried to discover the cause of what was ailing him so. It was only when she noticed just how alone they were, how everyone had seemingly been giving the siblings space — that Lyarra realized what must have happened. She sunk to her knees then, Eddard following her suit. Benjen stood solemnly behind the two, his emotions hidden behind an expression far too mature for a boy of his age.
Lyarra fell into Eddard's chest, wailing in a way she never had before. Brandon was gone. Their father was gone. Lyanna was never coming home. A war had started, then and there. The King was begging for Eddard's head as well, claiming that he and Robert must face him in King's Landing. Vaguely, Lyarra heard him revealing all of this to Benjen, explaining further that Jon Arryn was the only one to defend the two boys properly.
Eddard was leaving for war, a thought that further removed all stability in Lyarra's legs. She could no longer feel her own tears, even if she had tried. She felt numb, too many losses hitting her at once. Ned had attempted to promise her that he would return, but she cut him off with a sharp glare. The last person that had assured her he'd return broke that very promise. She'd even comforted his betrothed with those same words, only to let her down tenfold.
Within months, there would be another wedding. As if some joy was meant to be found in a time like this. Eddard was to be married to Catelyn Tully, a fact that Lyarra wasn't certain either party was pleased with. Their marriage would strengthen the house, but at what cost? The wedding came and went. Lyarra did her best to weather her own feelings, pushing them aside at the hopeful look in Eddard's eyes. He was an honorable man, a fact that even those who barely knew of the name 'Stark' knew. He would treat Catelyn with respect, and if Lyarra looked close enough she could almost see warmth in Ned's gaze.
The day that Ned left Winterfell, Lyarra could hardly force herself to look up to face him. She sat at Benjen's side, weakly nodding as Eddard made empty promises. He swore to bring Lyanna home, regardless of what the cost was. The younger siblings knew his words were empty, as well as he did. He brought them both to his chest, kissing their foreheads in tandem. They were meant to look after one another, protecting Winterfell above all else. Should Eddard fall, Benjen would be the next 'Lord Stark'. As the two watched Ned ride off into the distance, they felt one another properly break apart in each others arms. After all of this, they might only have one other. A thought that both comforted Lyarra, and filled her with more guilt than she had ever felt in her life.
When it was announced that Eddard had returned, Catelyn had all but jumped from her seat to greet her Lord Husband. Lyarra, however, did not move an inch. Benjen had given her an inquisitive look, but she only waved him off. She knew all too well, the moment that she stood up to greet Ned — all she would be able to think about is Lyanna's absence. He swore to her that he would bring her back, and she had a fool's hope to believe him. After another moment, Benjen stood to follow Catelyn, raising his arm to Lyarra.
Lyarra took a sharp breath, before nodding to follow him — clasping onto his arm for strength. Just as she had expected, Eddard stood alone in front of the gates. He looked older. He was only a few years her elder, and yet he looked just a year younger than their father had. His eyes were restless, his own somber attitude carrying him as he solitarily. It was only then, that she noticed the small bundle pressed against his chest.
There, Ned Stark held a babe. She couldn't help her own curiosity, as she unlinked her arm from Benjen to cautiously approach the two. Eddard's eyes widened at her approach, as if he'd assumed she would avoid the very thought of him. Once she reached the two, she couldn't help but peel back the blanket from the infant's face — clutching her chest as a gasp escaped her. There, the face of Lyanna Stark looked back at her. The babe had her eyes — though they were far from the same hue — her nose, her smile. He looked like her mirror image. The thought flooded Lyarra with confusion, as her head snapped to the man holding him.
Eddard only met her with a quick shake of his head, unnoticeable to anyone more than a foot away from the two. His eyes told a simple story, 'I'll speak of it later,' and the heat within them was enough for her to nod mindlessly, moving to step away from the two instead. To anyone who asked, the babe was Ned Stark's bastard. A thought that was hard to believe for many, considering the man was not one to break an oath. However, Lyarra could not help but hold her breath. There was something he was not sharing, a fact made clear by the unreadable expression that marred him any time he looked her way.
He found her when she was alone, that night. Before she had fled to Benjen's quarters. There, he carried the babe against his chest. He was well and truly asleep, however that did not change his familiarity. Lyarra did not open with a question, choosing instead to lean against her nightstand with a raised brow.
"I can't explain it. Do not ask me to, Lyarra." His words allowed no room for argument, while his gaze carried a level of finality that only furthered his intensity. Lyarra found herself speechless, choosing that moment to take a harsh seat, the chair thundering beneath her. She deserved answers, he knew that as well as she did. However, there was something keeping him from telling her the truth — something that Ned would not relent from, no matter how much she attempted to persuade him to do so.
"What is his name, then?" Her voice was weak, hardly recognizable as her own. Ned's gaze met hers in surprise, almost as if he did not expect her to relent as quickly as she had. The thought was unsurprising, but in truth Lyarra was tired of fighting. All she could think about was the babe in his arms, a babe that carried the face of Lyanna Stark wherever he went.
"Jon. After Lord Arryn." His words were soft as he looked down at the infant in amazement, as if he couldn't believe his own eyes. Lyarra narrowed her gaze, at that, making quick strides across the room to stand at his side. Eddard seemed to shrink at her approach, his arms coming up to cradle the baby closer to him. "I can't raise him alone. Catelyn won't speak to me, won't even look at me. She wouldn't let me explain. Not that I could, anyway." He hardly allowed her to get a word in, before his arm came up to wipe sweat from his own brow. He wasn't handling this well, not that she could blame him.
"I need your help. This is far too much to ask of you, I know that. I wouldn't, had I any other choice. He deserves to grow up proper, deserves a better life than I can give him." Ned sounded almost ashamed of himself, as he continued to gaze down at the boy. He hadn't looked away once, as if he were afraid he'd disappear the moment he closed his eyes.
"I'll take care of him, Ned. I promise you, I will care for him as he deserves. You have my word." Lyarra clutched onto Eddard's hand, bending in the slightest to meet his line of sight. Reluctantly he met her gaze, his eyes brimmed to the edge with tears. In that moment, she couldn't bring herself to ask the fate of her sister. She'd learn in due time, if not from her brother — then from someone in the courtyard who hadn't learned to whisper quiet enough. News travels quickly throughout the realm. Instead, she chose to lean into Eddard's space, gazing down at the boy alongside him. He'd repositioned, then, moving to offer her the babe. In an instant, Lyarra was filled with nerves. She'd never felt as if motherhood was for her — especially not her brother's bastard. Yet, the moment he was in her arms, Lyarra had never felt something more right.
Once his eyes peeled open, Lyarra was met with the tentative gaze of her sister. His eyes bore into hers, holding a question that she could not answer. Tears came streaming down her face before she could control them, and it was only the stable hand of her brother that kept her upright. She knew then, gazing into the eyes of the babe in her arms, that she would do anything for him. Regardless of what his story was — where he came from, in that moment he was hers. She'd hardly noticed Eddard slinking from the room, as she came to rest against the wall instead of his stiff arm.
"Hello, Jon." She cooed, caressing the boy's cheek with the pad of her thumb. She was stunned then, by the realization that she had never felt more love than she had in that moment, as she held him in her arms. A baby that she had known for less than a day, yet felt like she had loved more than half of her life. Jon Snow was her boy to care for, hers to protect. She may have failed her sister, but Lyarra swore in that moment that she would protect him with her life — regardless of what was to come.
Hey, so. Remember when I said I was going to make this one shorter... Oops. The last few chapters are a little rushed, but Lyarra is grieving okay. Things aren't going to go as they normally would. I really wanted to focus on the growing connection between Benjen and Lyarra, and ALSO the loss of Lyanna. Lyarra lost more than half of her family in less than a year .. She is not handling things well alright. I tried to do this in a proper way that made sense, but I also beg you guys to bear with me. The timeline is likely messy but.. Who reads a fanfic for a proper timeline?? Right?? Haha.. Okay.
The next chapter is likely going to introduce two of the main characters that haven't been mentioned yet. Right now, I'm thinking it's going to cover everything from this moment until the first proper episode of the show. So it will likely be a pretty long chapter. I apologize to everyone who decided to read this thinking it'd be a normal Sandor fic.. but above all this is the story about Lyarra Stark. I hope you all still enjoy! I am having a lot of fun writing this. And as always, feel free to leave any comments you have here!
The simplicity of Winterfell's consistent snowfall was something all too easy to overlook. To under-appreciate when it was all you were subjected to. It's when we spend our days longing for that which is out of our grasp, that we forget what we have already.
Every night since Lyarra's return to the comforting stone palace that she knew as home, she'd snuck out as the moon reached its peak. Every night, she made her way to the same spot. In truth, she wasn't sure exactly how long it had been. Weeks, she thought — maybe months. It was hard to tell. Her days were spent with either Benjen or Lyanna — as her two older brothers had too much responsibility to take on to spare a moment for their little sister. Brandon was coming into his own while Eddard was, more often than not, at the Eyrie. He'd been fostered there for what felt like years, rarely coming back to Winterfell unless it was for a matter of great import.
She longed to return to the days where she could talk to Brandon about anything on her mind, where he would match her vigor with his own — and it felt as if they were the only two who felt things as passionately as they did. She missed Eddard's all too serious tone in her ear constantly, nitpicking at all that she did. Years passed like this. She'd spend her nights in the forest, and her days with her younger brother and Lyanna. Lyarra learned to value the moments that she had with her family, cherishing them as if there wouldn't be another.
When she had the chance, she'd roam the halls with Benjen. Talking about anything and everything they could think of. He had even taken to sparring with her in the courtyard, though it took what felt like years of convincing. He wouldn't go near Lyanna — though she was almost the most enthusiastic for the chance — as there were rumors spiraling that Father was intending on wedding her soon. The girls were closing on ten-and-three, now. They knew well enough what was to come, whether they wanted it or not. A year prior, Brandon had come to Lyarra's room, just before she meant to sneak out. Her nerves were on fire, her palms sweating at the thought of being caught. But that wasn't what her brother was here for at all. In truth, she could've been halfway out the window by the time he entered, and he wouldn't have cared. He sat her down, and in a somber tone unbecoming of his character, told her that their father — Lord Rickard Stark — was considering marrying her to Edmure Tully.
Her initial reaction was to laugh. Her contempt for the boy was evident, even when she was staying with his family. They bickered, constantly. Not in the way that friends — or even siblings — do, no. The two despised one another. In truth, Lyarra wasn't certain what necessarily brought it on. Maybe it was his apparent distaste for her friend, or maybe it was just his attitude in and of itself. The very thought brought an uneasy feeling to her stomach, and that night she forgot all about her peace within the forest. That night, she begged Brandon — inconsolably bawling in his arms, soaking his tunic — to convince father otherwise.
"Please, Brandon. Please, don't let him. I've never met such a horrible boy in my life, truly! It's not fair, it's just not fair." Her words were muffled by his thick fur pelt, as she felt two broad arms come to wrap around her. Brandon caressed the back of her head, petting her hair as she continued to fall apart in his arms.
The two sat wrapped in one another for so long, that she hadn't even noticed her eyes growing heavy. She woke up to the sun in her vision — lighting up her puffy, tear-stained cheeks. When she sat up, she had her brother's cloak on. After that day, Edmure Tully was never mentioned to her again. Lyarra wasn't a fool. She was lucky, lucky that her father had started mulling over potential matches with the worst possible option. And more than anything, she was lucky that she had a brother caring enough to tell their father that he was a fool.
Lyanna, however, was not so lucky. She was to be wed to Robert Baratheon. A boy that the twins knew well, due to how close he was with Ned. Lyarra had never felt any particular way about him, not entirely. His longing for her sister was known, and oftentimes if he was drunk enough he'd confuse the two. She pitied him, in a way. A stupid boy, who fell for a brash girl — who knew all too well she'd be doomed to an unhappy marriage. Robert, though he claimed to love her sister, would never pass down an offer from a woman. Would never look away, when someone would strip themselves bare. He would be an unfaithful husband, even if no one was willing to acknowledge it but her and Lyanna. Eddard didn't disagree, necessarily. He knew the boy better than anyone. But his love for him was as clear as her own love for Petyr.
The night that the news was delivered, Lyarra clutched onto her sister's hand as tightly as she could. 'Lyanna was the most beautiful girl in all the seven kingdoms', Lyarra had thought. For all of her 'boyish' qualities, there had never lived a girl with more beauty. Both in spirit and in body. Compassion bled through Lyanna as if it was her own blood. When the two bid their farewells from the dining hall, Lyarra held her sister in her quarters as she all but sobbed in her arms. This time, she couldn't go to their father as Brandon had. She couldn't stand up for her, force him to make another decision. It was in that moment that she realized just how weak she was. How powerless she would be, from this day until the end of her days.
At ten-and-four, the betrothal was official. Lyanna Stark would wed Robert Baratheon, at a time that they saw fit. The night that it became an official decree throughout the realm, Lyarra spent hours sitting on her stump. At first, she sat in silence. Not even staring up at the sky, as she usually would have. This time, she gazed curiously down at her hands. Her fingers, though littered with calluses and scrapes from holding a blade, held no power. She couldn't help anyone. She couldn't fix anything.
Later, her eldest brother would scold her for missing the feast. Claiming that her sister needs her at her side now, more than ever. But it wasn't unnatural for her to miss celebrations. She rarely attended any sort of gathering, had she not been forced to do so. She'd seen her sister staring after her longingly, pleading with her to not go. But Lyarra wasn't strong enough to help her sister to begin with, so why should she try to be brave for her?
These nights repeated themselves, a consistent routine. It was only when it was announced that the children would be attending Lord Walter Whent's tourney at Harrenhal, that she took a pause. She hadn't left the castle properly since Riverrun. It was a fool's wish, but she couldn't help the giddiness that crept up her, as her thoughts swept to Petyr. Benjen took that moment to list off who he knew would be attending. He was fascinated by the knights, after all, and Lyarra couldn't blame him. Had she not been born a woman, she'd spend her nights dreaming of a life as a knight. A sworn brother, giving his life to his king. A strong, brave hero. By the end of the list, she couldn't help the displeasing churn that twisted in her gut. She missed her friend, dearly. As everything began to spiral out of control in her life, her need to see him was stronger than ever.
She'd sent ravens. Half a dozen, by now. They all contained various messages. Some describing what was going on, some detailing what she'd be doing right now if she could, and some asking him about what was going on in his life. Yet after years, she'd yet to receive a response. Perhaps he'd never gotten them. Perhaps something went wrong with each and every bird she'd sent. Or perhaps, he no longer wanted to hear from her at all.
The journey to Harrenhal wasn't nearly as discomforting as it had been to Riverrun. This time, she walked ahead with the eldest members of her family. Her and Lyanna would have to ride different horses this time, and seeing as she couldn't stand another minute of discussing Robert Baratheon — Lyarra chose to ride alongside Eddard, who had hardly seemed surprised by her presence. He cast a longing look towards his two younger siblings, as Benjen and Lyanna had begun bickering about anything and everything. First, her horse was too close to his. Then, his horse stunk — and it was making her horse stink. Then, all horses stink. Lyarra and Eddard were nearly in hysterics by the end of the ride, after hearing their ridiculous arguments.
Harrenhal almost made Lyarra miss the castle in Riverrun. Though it'd felt almost like a cell while inside, this castle was bordering on ruin. And by the looks of it, it always had been. The first event of the tourney itself came quickly. Her eyes caught on the shields, on the way that the clashing almost appeared to be a dance. She knew some of the knights by their sigil alone, while other times she needed Benjen to name them for her. Across the stands, Lyarra's eyes were caught curiously by what she saw before her. Across her stood a boy, who couldn't be more than a year — maybe two — her elder, with a scar stretching across his cheek. A boy who, to most, no doubt appeared monstrous. With a patch of hair missing, and puckered burns across his face, the sight would make any take a shallow breath.
But Lyarra, forgetting herself, couldn't take her eyes off of the boy. For all the monstrous things about him, his eyes were captivatingly beautiful, enraptured in a way she had never seen. He was fascinated by what was going on, entirely absorbed. His own adoration matched her own, though she was sure she was not able to express her excitement exactly the way that he was. After a beat or two longer, the boy's head seemed to snap up in an instant — his eyes finding Lyarra in the crowd, as if he knew exactly where she'd be. She watches as his brow, or what is left of it, furrows at her stare. She did her best to pull her lips in a soft smile, so that he would know she wasn't staring out of ignorance or anything of the sort. But his piercing eyes flitted away just as quickly as they had appeared. He seemed to compose himself, his previous childlike grin dampened to ash.
Lyarra couldn't help the guilt churning within her. She hadn't meant to upset the boy. She wanted to ask her brother if he knew who the boy was, but she decided to take the attention off of him for a moment. Instead, she focused her gaze on what was transpiring before her. Benjen had been talking throughout the competition, apparently, but she only tuned back in towards the end. She didn't need him to name the golden boy below her, who stood proud as he was bestowed the honor of Kingsguard. She'd never met the boy personally, but one knows a lion when one sees it. Jaime Lannister carried his ego with him on his shoulder wherever he went. Not that Lyarra could blame him. He was beautiful, even she could admit that. He almost resembled a knight that she would read about in her stories, who'd come to save the fair maiden in her time of need.
Jaime Lannister, for all of his overwhelming self-confidence, had never seemed so small as he did in that moment. She took the time to scan over him with curious eyes. He was just a boy. His eyes only just barely gave away his facade, breaking away to show the display the true fear beneath them. He wanted to prove himself as badly as she did – as badly as anyone competing today did, she'd argue. When Lyarra came back from her train of thought, recognizing that her brother was speaking again, Jaime's eyes began to sweep over the crowd. It felt as if he were committing the moment to memory, and she couldn't help but sit up in the slightest to applaud properly. For only a moment, his eyes caught on her — flickering in vague recognition. A lion recognizes a wolf just as easily, it'd seem. By the time that Lyarra pulled her eyes away from Jaime, she glanced to the spot where she had seen the scarred boy from earlier. In his place left a small, almost unnoticeable gap in the crowd. Yet she couldn't help the faint pout on her lips as she tried to find him.
"Enjoying the tourney, my lady?" The Lion called to the Wolf. The festivities had been wrapped up for the night, with the final event being a knighting of a large man that Lyarra couldn't quite recall. Clegane, she thought. A monstrous man. Twice the size of her father, double that of her brother. There were whispers throughout the crowd, as he was bestowed the title of knight. However, she paid them no mind. Coming back to herself, Lyarra couldn't help the small smile on her lips as she turned to face the golden-haired boy. Jaime matched her smile with a coy grin of his own, his helmet buried in the crux of his armpit.
"It's fascinating, Ser Jaime. Though a bit tedious at times, if you don't mind my saying-" at that, she was cut off by a sharp laugh from the boy. Of course, even his laugh was princely. Lyarra decided then and there that Jaime Lannister was perfect. He had no faults. How could he, after all? Every step he made left a golden footprint, his words pure honey pouring out of his lips. Unbecoming of herself, she couldn't help the blush that crept up her neck. "But fascinating regardless. Congratulations are in order, I'd assume?"
"I thank you, my lady. I'll remember it for the rest of my days, I'm sure. There's nothing quite like standing in front of a crowd and hearing them all chant your name. Not mocking you, but worshipping you, cheering for you.." He trailed off, his eyes unfocused in the distance. Lyarra's own smile turned the slightest hint of bittersweet, at that. She'd never get to feel that, not the way he had. She'll never be a knight, nor will she be worshipped. Even if she is married off, it won't be to someone important enough to have the people chant her name. Her own eyes gaze longingly into the shrubbery for a moment, before she is stolen out of her stupor by an arm being presented to her.
"Would you accompany me to the feast, my lady? It's a terribly long walk, I'm afraid. I wouldn't want for you to get lost. Or me, for that matter!" Jaime's words were charmingly sweet, with a grin that stretched across his features wolfishly. Her arm linked with his before she could think through the action properly.
"The newly appointed Kingsguard lost on his first day? Oh, no. We can't have that, can we?" The two shared a laugh, as if they'd developed their own language within minutes of speaking to one another. Lyarra had half the heart to be wary of the lion, of how charming he was. But as he continued to make her laugh — to say exactly what she was thinking, just before she said it, her trepidation melted away, leaving only something warm and all encompassing within her chest. The two made their way to the hall with minimal conversation, Jaime making a few comments throughout the trip — clearly just seeking to hear her laugh again.
"Ah, yes. Here we are. Lord Whent's favorite bush. It's said he comes out here, at the cusp of night when he knows that no one is watching..." He trailed off then, widening his eyes expectantly. Lyarra felt a snort building up, and let out a quick cough to maintain her dignity. Her belly laughs quick became giggles, as the two continued throughout the night. "And uh, well. Looks at it? I'm not quite sure really. Can you really do much with a bush?"
"Oh, you'd be surprised! Think bigger, Ser Jaime. Think bigger."
"You know, you're not the first person to tell me that."
Once they had arrived to the feast itself, Lyarra moved to sit by her siblings. Jaime bid her farewell by kissing the tips of her fingers, and she promised to find him again before they made their journey back home. She did her best to ignore the looks coming from his family, as well as the confused glances from her own. Instead, she sat down harshly — with far too much weight than she should have. Had Old Nan been there, she would've called it 'unladylike'. To all seven hells with that, she thought. She directed her attention to once again scanning the faces in the hall, looking for the boy from earlier. At Benjen's inquisitive look, she went to describe him to ask for his aid — but thought better of it. If he was already offended by just her staring, of course he would hate it if her whole pack of wolves gawked at him too.
She was briefly distracted by this train of thought when her siblings began to argue. Apparently, Lyanna had been paying too much attention to Rhaegar Targaryen (not that anyone could blame her, for that matter) and Benjen took to mocking her like a child. Not only that, when the man had begun to sing — Lyanna couldn't hold back her tears. Their brother was laughing so hard that he was bordering on tears of her own. Lyarra sat back as well as she could on the bench, scanning the hall for the boy from earlier. Her eyes caught Jaime's from across the room, as he sent her a curious look. She brushed it off, turning her attention back to her rowdy siblings — who were now spilling wine on one another.
Lyarra had half a heart to chastise them for their behavior, but Eddard had spoken up in that moment already. She took one more glance around the room before standing to take her younger brother's arm, guiding him out of the hall.
"Does she have to act like such an idiot all the time?" He grumbled to himself once they were outside of the hall. Had Lyarra not been so close to him she likely wouldn't have heard it to begin with.
"If I remember right, you started it, dear brother. Perhaps, don't mock a woman while she holds a glass of wine." Lyarra added with a shrug, moving to ruffle his hair half-heartedly.
"Woman is a stretch. You're both children. Act like it too." His words were met with a sharp sigh. He was right, of course. They were only treated as women because of matters outside of their control. As if bleeding once should make you ready to bear a child, to take on the responsibilities of a lady.
"Like you're any better." With that, the conversation had ended. Benjen all but avoided her eyes as she guided him to his quarters. She'd intended on leaving the boy there to retreat to her own, before an arm shot out to grasp onto her. Lyarra jumped at the sudden movement, spinning back to face her brother.
"D'you mind staying, just for a while? I don't like being away from home. It's better when you're around." His admission was quiet, eyes cast low. She took this moment to raise her palm to his cheek, moving him to face her.
"Of course, Benjen. I'll stay as long as you'd like." And she did just that. The two only talked for a short while. He continued prattling on about Lyanna's fascination with Rhaegar, and Lyarra only scoffed and nodded along as she listened. She, in turn, told him of her time with Jaime Lannister. This was met with a bit of a scowl, but Benjen nodded nonetheless. The boy had fallen asleep soon after, but Lyarra did not leave his side until she saw the sun peaking over the castle.
The remaining days of the tourney seemed to wane on. She, along with the rest of her family, had been forced to attend every competition. Every blade swung just reminded Lyarra further that she would never be able to hold such a position. She'd always be the lady stuck in the crowd, watching as the men have their fun. She hardly held a scowl as she observed, though several times she was chastised by her brothers. Some nights Jaime would meet her in that same garden, escorting her to the feast in the same way he had the nights prior. Other nights the two would only meet one another's eyes from across the room, and smile in their own secretive way before moving on. All things considered, Lyarra was merely content to find a friend. The boy seemed to have mutual respect for her, as she did him.
On the fourth day of competition, Lyarra had decided she'd had enough of playing the silent observer. There had been two jousts already, and just before the men could begin the third — she'd heard a distant yell. It wasn't loud enough to catch the attention of the men in front of her, but it did catch the ears of her and her siblings. Benjen, at the very least.
"Men for the Night's Watch! Any able bodied man looking to serve the realm, look for the Night's Watch! The shield that guards the realms of men!" A poor advertisement, really. But effective to one, it'd appear. Lyarra watched as Benjen sat forward, his eyes muddled in thought. The very thought of her brother in the Night's watch forced an unladylike cackle out of her lips. Her brother? The boy who had begged her to stay in her room, so that he did not have to sleep alone, only nights ago? Regardless, the boy was transfixed. He only looked away when a group of boys behind them began to call out to the man.
They mocked him, belittling him for such a 'cowardly job', as they'd put it. The Night's Watch was embarrassing to them. A way to escape the duties of a 'proper man'. In Lyarra's eyes, she considered the men of the Watch brave. They were sacrificing their lives for the realm — for the better of everyone else's life. She stood up then to chastise them, before being yanked down by her older brother. Eddard shot her a sharp look, before quickly returning his focus to the tourney. Lyarra bore the man no mind, as she once again stood up, moving to empty the remainder of her cup of wine on them. They'd shot up instantly to retaliate, before remembering themselves — and quickly ran off. She could hardly hold back the prideful grin on her lips, as she turned back to her brother.
While she considered the idea of Benjen in the Night's Watch laughable, she wouldn't allow others to dampen his dream. That was her job, after all. She moved to place her hand on his, then, interlocking their fingers. He seemed to breathe after her touch, sending her a short — almost imperceptible — nod in thanks.
Lyanna did not pay much attention herself, until Rhaegar Targaryen was out. Lyarra couldn't help but admit that her sister did spend an odd amount of time watching the man. She thought he was fascinating herself, of course. The Targaryens were hard to not look away from. They were beautiful, almost standing as mythological beings. However Lyanna had yet to look away from the boy once. Robert had come to speak to her at one point, stomping across the stands — drunk already, no doubt. Lyarra had to step harshly on her sister's shoe to get the girl to notice, too transfixed by the mop of white hair in front of her. This seemed to delight Benjen, as his theory had been proven correct — to which Lyarra turned to stomp on his boot as well.
On the night before the last day of the tourney, Lyarra held back in the gardens to wait for Jaime. While she waited, she observed the flowers surrounding her. Winter Roses grew proudly everywhere she looked. Lyanna would love this, she couldn't help but think. Perhaps she should bring her sister down tomorrow, before the tourney starts. Or perhaps her sister had already come, with Rhaegar at her side. The man had begun to take interest in her too, no doubt. Only a blind man couldn't see that. Lyarra knew this blooming interest between them would only end poorly. Lyanna was to be wed, and King Aerys hardly seemed like a man to strike a bargain for her sake. She knew as well that Rhaegar was married himself, to Elia Martell, though in truth she had never seen the two together. Another Stark could easily be wed to Robert, to establish the bond. Unfortunate, that she knew well enough in that moment that no man would ever relinquish their 'right to a woman', regardless of how she felt.
At that moment, a snap of a branch caught Lyarra's attention. She whipped around with a smile, expecting to see Jaime Lannister's golden grin. Only, instead of Jaime, it was a much larger beast. There stood Gregor Clegane. Ser Gregor, she supposed. He was easily triple her size. She'd seen him maybe twice now in the tourney, crushing every man he went against. He peered down at her, his eyes the furthest thing from human she had ever seen. As she moved to speak, he stepped forward, all but backing her against a column. For the first time in her life, Lyarra was truly speechless in terror. Men had made their intentions with her clear more than once, and she was accustomed to a brutish man with a wandering hand. But Gregor? He wasn't a man at all. He raised his palm to her cheek, and was only halted by a sharp voice calling from across the garden.
"Brother! Your king is calling you. Says he needs you, now. Wouldn't want to keep him waiting. He seemed angry." The voice, unrecognizable to Lyarra, rang out. His words seemed to echo, as Gregor made no move to retreat. His eyes pierced into hers, and she couldn't help but tremble against the wall. With a grunt, he moved across the garden — staring daggers into whoever had spoken. It was then, as Lyarra sat forward to collect herself, that she was able to spot whom the voice had come from. It was the boy from the first day of the tourney. The boy with burns across his cheek, brown hair sweeping across his face. He looked so small, now that she could see him closer. His scar almost made him appear that much younger. She moved to thank the boy, before another voice rang out.
"My lady! I apologize for such a dastardly wait. The king has been rather unhappy tonight, I'm afraid. It was a chore to rid myself of him." Jaime Lannister took the opportunity to appear then, making quick strides to her. It was only when he'd reached Lyarra, that he noticed her ragged state. He glanced down at her, before turning accusatively to the boy who still stood silent as ever in the center of the garden. Lyarra shot up, then, placing a calm hand to Jaime's shoulder. The boy took this chance to make his leave, never once breaking eye contact with her. Just before he'd left the garden, she'd stepped forward, leaving Jaime's grasp.
"Ser?" She called, her voice ringing across the area. The boy stopped then, turning to her with a grimace. She could see then, that he truly wasn't much older than her. Not old enough that he couldn't be a knight, but he didn't carry himself like one at all. He was much larger than her. Smaller than Gregor, of course. But far larger than Jaime — or anyone else she'd met, for that matter. "Thank you."
"I'm no Ser," And with that, the boy had disappeared as quickly as he'd arrived. She almost deflated at that, leaning back on the soles of her feet. Jaime had taken her arm as quickly as he had the previous nights, only this time he lingered — glancing over her to make sure she had no lasting wounds. Her explanation came quick, leaving out names due to the man's connection with the King. Jaime promised her that he would find the man that attacked her, and Lyarra could hardly force a timid smile on her lips.
Lyarra did not leave her sister's side after that. She rarely saw Jaime, and if she did it was only in passing. The two would send one another a weak smile, before carrying on their respective paths. She knew better than to mention what happened to anyone. Lyarra, in truth, didn't even know if Gregor would be punished, and did not want to suffer his wrath unknowingly. Lyanna spent her time ogling Rhaegar Targaryen, unsurprisingly. She hardly looked away, and if she did it was only for a brief moment.
On the last day of the tourney, Lyarra could hardly force herself to pay attention. She knew that the purpose of the whole tournament was to name a 'queen of love and beauty'. A nameless title, used only to bring praise and further celebration to the victorious knight who would place the crown in a lady's lap. She spent her time scanning through the crowd, searching desperately for the boy that had her curiosity spiraling like a mad dog. He'd been almost frightened by her wandering eye originally, only to come to her aid when she needed it most. 'Brother', he'd called Ser Gregor. So he was a Clegane, then. Lyarra made a mental note to ask her brother of the Cleganes later, as she knew little to nothing of the name.
She only refocused her attention on the tournament when she noticed white hair sweeping through the field. Rhaegar Targaryen stood victorious over the other men, thus presenting him with the crown — to bestow upon a lady whom he saw fit. Lyarra had brushed the very concept off, choosing to clasp onto her sister's hand — assuming that he would pick his wife. Lyanna was to be wed, and he had a wife of his own. Regardless of whether there was something budding between the two, they'd have no choice in the matter. It was only as Lyarra watched Rhaegar approach in horror, that she began to reconsider. In a flash, Rhaegar placed the crown of blue winter roses in Lyanna's lap. Just as quickly as he'd arrived, he was gone. Lyanna's cheeks were flushed, a red hue creeping up her neck. She never quite thought she'd seen her sister as full of life as she was in that moment.
However, Lyarra was no fool. She knew the repercussions to this. The action itself was scandalous, and she watched in mute horror as Robert Baratheon turned his own shade of red in the face. Princess Elia was gone, disappeared in a flash before anyone else had noticed. She couldn't help the pang of pity that rang through her chest, at that.
The trip back to Winterfell was a quiet one. Benjen and Lyanna rode far from one another, with Lyanna lingering in the back alongside her sister. Lyarra did not leave her sister's side, save to speak with Eddard. Throughout their short talks, Ned did not take his eyes off of Lyanna. He wasn't pleased with her, no doubt. Though, Lyarra maintained that it was no fault of her sister's. Rhaegar made his decision on his own, she took no part in it. He seemed to grow a bit more complacent at her words, muttering a vague comment of appreciation before hastening his horse ahead.
Lyarra thought then of the golden lion she'd left behind. Jaime Lannister, for all his perfections, was a curious man. She'd only made one friend in her life, yet her bond with the Lannister boy blossomed almost just as quickly. They weren't nearly as close, however, and her heart did not long to return to him as it did to Petyr. Jaime Lannister was a kind, charming boy. Their goodbyes were short, away from prying eyes, in the garden that they'd properly met. He'd had to leave early as it was, with the intention of guarding the Queen Rhaella. Jaime had pulled her hand down to his lips, kissing her knuckles — as if she were a proper lady. Lyarra would miss the boy, she decided then. She only hoped that he'd serve his king well, and that they would later meet under better circumstances.
The Clegane boy, however, she had yet to see again. She searched for him after the tourney, eyes wandering where they could, but her brothers hardly let her out of their sight after the incident with Lyanna. She would be forever grateful to him, even if she never would get the chance to properly speak with him.
Lyarra rode silently at her sister's side, doing her best to observe her when she had the chance. She'd seemed somber, since the tourney. Originally, she was elated. Her spirits were only dampened when she'd seen the reaction of the onlookers surrounding her. Lyanna Stark was not one to let the opinions of the many disturb her. She was far from a typical lady. There were even rumors spiraling that she'd presented herself as a Knight at the tourney, though Lyarra was not by her sister's side enough to confirm nor deny that.
"Are you looking forward to returning home?" Lyarra asked tentatively, leaning down in the slightest to move into her sister's path of sight. It took a few moments for her to respond, and just before Lyarra had gone to ask again she was interrupted.
"Would you look forward to walking back into the arms of your captor?" Her words were venomous, yet the fury in them was not meant for Lyarra. She knew that well enough.
"You're not his captive, Lyanna. Robert loves you, at the very least-"
"At the very least? Oh, so I am meant to love a man because he gives me a golden cage rather than a steel cell? That is not love, dear sister. Robert will find and fuck the first thing he sees, you know that as well as I do." Lyarra was stunned for a beat too long, and before she could collect herself her sister had already ridden ahead. She was right. Lyarra knew she was right. Lyanna had never felt as adored as she had when Rhaegar placed the crown in her lap. A crown of her favorite flowers, solidifying her as the most beautiful lady in attendance. She would never get that from Robert, regardless of how he claimed to love her.
Lyarra rode on in silence, watching her sister's back as she faded in the distance. She'd wished in that moment, that she hadn't begged her brother to spare her from Edmure Tully. That she was locked in a cage of her own, if only to relieve her sister from the pressure of carrying that weight alone. As it was, she did not know how it felt to be tied to a man that she did not love. She would, in due time. Yet it was her sister who had to shoulder that burden alone now.
Okay. Well. There's that! I kind of had to force myself to end this chapter here, because I had too many ideas on where to go with it. I did not mean to make this 6k words.. Please bear with me.
I do have some things I'd like to note about this chapter! One, this is all from Lyarra's perspective, so if something is not included it is because she was not there to witness it. The bit with Howland Reed and the Knight of the Laughing Tree is only briefly touched on in his chapter. Partially because I do not know too much about it, and also because Lyarra was just not present for it. She is always up to smth.. Free my girl. Two, the friendship between Jaime and Lyarra admittedly came out of nowhere. As I was writing, it just felt natural. The chemistry between the two was so entertaining that I could not stop writing for a moment. It feels fitting to me, though, considering what happens between the two later on (maniacal laughter)
Three, we got our first Sandor appearance! Who cheered. I did not intend on introducing him so early but I saw my chance with the tourney and took it. Bless Lord Whent and his timing (that I altered with creative liberties) Four, the third chapter is likely going to be much shorter than the previous two have been. I have a lot that I'd like to write about Lyarra's life after what happens with Lyanna, so I know that I must separate the two chapters. Fifth and finally, there is a lot of history in the Stark line that is not touched on in this story. Ned being fostered in the Eyrie is only briefly touched on. Lyarra is a bit of an ignorant child, all things considered. She is very curious, but she spends a lot of her time in her own head. If something isn't touched on, it's likely because I felt that something was more important to include instead. I try to keep the familial storylines as close to canon as I can, so if anything isn't explicitly written feel free to assume it happens without saying.
That is all I have for the time being! If you have any comments, feel free to leave them.
Hooked on a dream that is reeling me in. Oh, is this how we begin? Flowers on fire in black and white film.
— Count Me In, Early Winters
Lyarra Stark had always been a wolf, for all intensive purposes. Frost coated her blood, winter exuded her very being. From the day she came into the realms of men, she was cold to the touch. As her mother went to caress her cheek for the first time, she couldn't help the instinctual flinch. Her babe all but frozen, with pink cheeks — and warm breath. When they took her to the Maester, they discovered there had been nothing wrong with her — not at all. She was born of Winter, and Winter she would remain.
When her hair began to grow in, it was thick — black curls, that cascaded down her. She stood out from the snowy wasteland of the North. As did her personality. While her eldest brother Brandon had always been described as a hot-head, she was cold. Not unkind, but her words were sharp. She did not speak often, and never to those outside of her family.
Her sister, Lyanna, carried the very thought of love with her everywhere she went. It was impossible to hate her, unthinkable to not adore. The two were halves of one whole. In that same breath, they were also almost identical. Lyarra's features were just a bit sharper than Lyanna's. To the naked eye, one could hardly tell the difference. While it was expected of ladies to think naught of anything but life — but love, childbearing, and marriage — the twins would spend their nights sparring. No one else would ever come close to raising a blade to them, wooden or not -- so they knew it was their own task to see through. The two, previously alike in everything but name — had only one staggering difference. Lyanna would spend her nights blissfully thinking of her life ahead, of flowers and life. While Lyarra knew all too well of what was to come.
She wasn't blind to the life that was expected of women. What was expected of her. It was at the age of eight that she began sneaking out of the walls of Winterfell — at the very peak of night. When one could see nothing but wisps of snow coating the ground — and stone surrounding them. She'd been beyond the walls a few times, but not often. Her own curiosity took hold of her, pushing her further and further — until she came upon a forest. It was nothing frightening, by any means. Lyarra could see the end of the tree-line, if she stood up. The trees almost seemed to form a circle, with one solitary stump in the middle. Again, Lyarra's feet seemed to carry her before her mind could argue — and in a few short steps, she was perched on the stump, watching the snow fall above her.
Every night that she could, for the years to come — she would spend her hours gazing up at the trees on that very stump. Sometimes she would bring a book, sometimes her sword. But she would never share it with anyone else. If she had to live someone else's life — a ladies life — she would need something to her own. Even if it stung to keep something so precious from her sister.
At age ten, she traveled with her brothers to Riverrun — and as it was her first time making such a journey, she spent most of it clutching her sister's hand. The two did not hold one another close very often. Lyanna would scold Lyarra for how cold she was, and rip whatever Lyarra was holding onto out of her grasp. It wasn't meant to be cruel, and she knew very well how her touch felt to others — but she could never help the scowl that followed. This time, though, Lyarra would not let her out of her grasp. For all of her curiosity, she couldn't help but long to be back within the walls of Winterfell.
The more that she cowered to her sister's side, the more attention from her brothers she drew to herself. This was not the first time that Brandon had made this journey — as they were going to visit his intended, after all — nor Eddard, for that matter. Though it was Benjen's first time traveling this far, he walked ahead of the two girls. As Lyarra noticed this, she couldn't help but pout in the slightest. She longed for her brother to be by her side, making her laugh — taking her mind off of the journey. Eddard, as if he knew what she was thinking, glanced towards Benjen's retreating figure. His jaw fell open, as if to call for his brother, but he shut it just as quickly — thinking better of himself.
"'S alright, Lyarra. We'll be back home soon, I swear it." Eddard grasped onto her shoulder. The boy was only a few years her elder, but she couldn't help the awe she felt in his presence. If she thought her sister carried the thought of love with her everywhere she went, her brother carried honor. It was almost breathtaking, in certain lights. The peace and loyalty that he exuded, that came out in his very presence. She couldn't do much but nod, but even that was enough to bring a calming smile to Ned's lips. He squeezed her shoulder, bending down to meet her eyes evenly, and she couldn't help but meet his smile with one of her own.
For the first few days of their visit to Riverrun, Lyarra did not care to leave her quarters. When she did, she stayed at the side of her sister — avoiding any sort of conversation with those around her. Brandon did his best to introduce her to those around them, but she only spared them a timid smile — before moving to stand behind him. On the third day, however, Lyarra snuck out of her room at the very peak of the night — as she normally would have, had she been home. This time, however, she knew she could not exit the walls. She knew not how to come back in, nor if they would hear her yelling. Instead, she took to wandering the halls. She was unaware of how much time had gone by, stuck in a palace of her own thoughts. After a while, she came across a small stone window. If she tried hard enough, she could stick half of her body out of it — shimmy her way down. But this wasn't a prison, not really. How she longed to return home, though. Her curious stupor was broken then, by a small - almost weasley voice,
"It's a long fall, you know. I've thought of it before. At best, your ankle would snap as you landed. At worst? Your head would cave from the pressure." Lyarra almost jumped out of her own skin, as she twisted her head to find where the voice was coming from. In front of her stood a small, common-looking boy. With clothes far finer than one would assume he would have. His eyes were soft, while the rest of him was sharp. He was, in all, truly a small child. One look at him, and Lyarra knew the boy wasn't royalty. So, he wasn't Edmure Tully then. Unfortunate, that Lyarra hadn't listened much when her brother had described the inhabitants of the castle.
As if he knew what she was thinking, a coy smirk pulled across the boy's lips — with a smile forming just as small as the rest of him. "My name's Petyr. Petyr Baelish." The last part came out as a bit of a ramble, as if it were an afterthought. He couldn't be royalty, or any kind of highborn. The ward, then. Now Lyarra could vaguely recall her brother's words. Eddard had not spoken fondly of the boy — describing him as a leech, for lack of a better term. However, in this light, Lyarra could not see what was so monstrous about him. He appeared to be just a boy.
"Lyarra is mine. I apologize my .. friend, I know I am not meant to be out of my quarters. I only meant to take a short walk. I will return at once." Her words came out meek, and she sounded much smaller than she would've liked. Petyr, who seemed to brighten at the word 'friend' took a step forward, as she meant to make her retreat.
"Please, don't leave on my account. Spend your night roaming the halls, if that is what you wish. That's what I did, on my first night here." Petyr's coy smile melted into something more genuine, and Lyarra could just barely see a glisten of light in his eyes. He didn't want her to go. The further she stepped away, the closer he stepped to her. If it were anyone else, Lyarra would feel threatened. But somehow, she knew that this boy wouldn't hurt her. "If it would comfort you to not spend your night alone, I could walk with you. I was on my way to my own quarters, when I saw you."
Lyarra couldn't help the hesitation that swept over her. She didn't have any friends, beyond her siblings. She had never been outspoken in that aspect, never in the way that she should have been. Yet, here was a boy practically throwing himself at her feet — just for the chance of a friend. She took a breath, before reaching her arm out — giving him the chance to link with her.
"Come then, Petyr. I'd like to see what other secrets this 'castle' has in store for me." She glanced at him expectantly, then, and couldn't help but meet his smile with one of her own as he grasped onto her. Unlike everyone else, he did not shy away from how cold she was. His eyes only widened for a second, before he clutched onto her arm that much stronger. The two spent the night roaming the halls, and for once Lyarra listened as someone explained the meaningless history of these walls to her. She matched his stories with some of her own, describing to him what Winterfell was like — what her first snowfall felt like.
The two only stopped, when they had returned to the window again. The sun was just barely rising, somehow they'd managed to talk through the entire night. As Petyr went to make his leave, Lyarra clutched onto his sleeve before she could stop herself. At his inquisitive, but not unkind look — she took a breath, before she spoke.
"Back home, I would do this every night. I would sneak out of my chambers, beyond the walls. Past the guards, into the woods. And every night, I would go to this forest. A small thing, really. But in the very center of the forest stood a stump. Yet it isn't frayed, like someone cut it themselves. It's as if it just grew that way. Small, never growing any larger. Content. And when I would sit there, for once it felt as if I knew my place. As if I was meant to be there." Lyarra finished her ramble as quickly as it began, as she delicately placed her free hand onto the stone at the bottom of the window. She had never told anyone that before, and here she was — prattling her secrets off to the first stranger she'd met. Petyr took a beat before answering, and Lyarra couldn't help but realize how ridiculous she sounded. She'd only just gone to correct herself, when he spoke up.
"Should I ever make that journey, I'd like to see that. If you'd have me." His words were soft, and as her head snapped to him for the second time that night — she saw in his eyes then what she had never seen before. Understanding, wholly and completely. He knew how it felt to not have a place in the world, to not know where you belong. The value of having somewhere entirely to yourself. She couldn't help the small grin that graced her lips.
"Well, of course, Petyr. You're my friend, aren't you?" For the second time that night, Lyarra watched as the boy all but glowed at the word. He needed a friend just as badly as she did. Maybe even more. The two held onto one another for a beat longer than necessary, before saying their goodbyes. As Petyr began to walk in the other direction, Lyarra called out for him. "Petyr, if you wouldn't mind? Keep what I told you between us. I haven't told anyone else.." He said nothing, but the previous coy smile that she'd been introduced with covered his lips once more. With a slight nod, the two went their separate ways.
The rest of Lyarra's stay passed in all but a blur. She spent her day with Lyanna — or one of her brothers, if they weren't busy with the Tully girls. She hadn't gotten much of a chance to speak to her brother's intended, herself. Catelyn Tully intimidated Lyarra, for some reason that she couldn't place. While Petyr's features were sharp, Catelyn's words carried that weight instead. She exuded a sense of responsibility everywhere she went. Lysa, on the other hand, didn't carry herself the way that her sister did. Though, admittedly, Lyarra had only gotten glimpses at her — and each time, the girl was already glaring at her. A petulant child, then. Lyarra spent her nights roaming the halls with Petyr. Some nights they would go to one of their respective quarters, both sitting on the floor — in a way unbecoming of their station — as they talked about their lives. About things they'd never seen, and the things that they wanted to see. Some nights, Lyarra would have supper with her family as well as the Tullys — and throughout the night she would make faces at Petyr, forced to contain her laughter at his reaction. She caught Edmure giving her a strange look more than once, and each time she would simply look back at him blankly.
Eddard caught on all too quickly, though her other siblings remained oblivious to this newfound friendship. He'd made his disapproval quite clear. 'Littlefinger' -- as he'd so delicately named him — 'was not to be trusted', he'd argue. Every day, the two siblings would get into the same quarrel. She loved her brother, and trusted him beyond words. But she wouldn't allow his bias to go against her care for her new friend. Too quickly, she became all too aware of Petyr's feelings for Catelyn. When she was braced with the news, she couldn't help the slight sting in her chest. Of course, she would never be allowed to marry someone as lowborn as Petyr (though, in her eyes, a ward was far from below her) but he was the first boy who had taken an interest in her for her. Her own bitter feelings subsided eventually, though, as she saw her friend longingly staring at the Tully girl.
On the final day of their stay, Lyarra spent her night at the very window where she was introduced to Petyr. As she waited for him, staring up at the sky, she couldn't help but think about how different things were. She dreaded going home, after all this time. Losing her one friend, being forced to return to a life that didn't feel like her own. Reminiscent of their first meeting, Petyr broke her out of this thought by lightly grasping her shoulder. This time, she knew exactly who it was without looking. She'd become familiar with the boy's almost-too-soft hands. His spindly fingers.
"There's something I want you to see. Something I think you'll like." Was all he said as a greeting, gently moving to spin her towards him. Her brow furrowed almost instantly, and without a word she nodded — moving to follow him silently. The two didn't say much to one another, Lyarra still stuck in her somber thoughts. Petyr, as if noticing this, clasped onto her arm as he had on the first night. Before she knew it, the two were outside — walking along the battlements. This was the furthest outside she had been since her stay began, even when she walked through the castle with her family. Lyarra's eyes cascaded over the water below, as she marveled at the land in the distance. As she turned to look back to Petyr, she noticed he was already looking at her.
"Figured you would like to get out of the castle, at least once." Was all he supplied, with a small — almost imperceptible shrug. Lyarra couldn't help the smile that overtook her, as she all but threw herself into the thin arms of the boy next to her. He grunted in surprise, as her arms entirely wrapped around the small boy.
"Thank you, Petyr. Oh, thank you, my friend." Her voice was muffled, as she shoved her face into his coat. After a beat, he moved his arms to wrap around her in return. She held him for only a moment longer, before pulling back with a wide grin. Lyarra turned back to the open land, moving to clutch onto his hand then. "There's so much out there.. haven't you ever wondered where it all ends?" At that, Petyr let out a noncommittal grunt. He stepped forward, placing his own hands on the stone wall.
"'Course, I have. These walls, they're all I've ever known. All I'll ever know, if I'm being honest." He sounded almost sorrowful. As if he were a frail bird locked away in a cage, desperate to fly as far as he could away. "The Tullys, they took me in when they didn't have to. My family was nothing, I've yet to forget that. Yet to be allowed to, I should say." Lyarra understood what he meant all too well. She had always been grateful that she was given this life. That her family didn't need to fight for food, that she had a warm hearth. But at night, she dreamt of living another life. A free one, where she was allowed to do as she wished. She was young, still a child of course — but she was soon to be a woman, whether she wished for it or not. Lyarra squinted them, trying to look as far as she could into the distance.
"If you could, where would you go?" Lyarra had never felt as young as she did in that moment. For just a second, the two were only hopeful children — dreaming of a life so far out of their grasp. For just a moment, they were allowed to wish for something else. A beat of silenced stretched over the battlements as the boy thought.
"South. King's landing. Maybe I'd work for the king. Work my way up, until I was his most trusted advisor. Men often overlook what they cannot see." He seemed to spin a web of gold, within his words. He sounded so certain of himself, and it was such a contrast to the timid boy that Lyarra had come to know. Her stomach churned, almost uneasy — but she couldn't feel the burst of pride within her chest as the boy dreamt of a life so far away.
"You'd make a good king, I think. You're smart enough to navigate that sort of thing." Her words showed her own youthful innocence, as she leaned against the stone wall to smile at Petyr. At that, his eyes seemed to narrow with intensity — as if her words alone just gave him a purpose he'd never truly imagined.
"Intelligence means nothing in the eyes of a King. King's Landing itself is chaos — a pit that I'm not quite confident I'd be able to find my way out of." Petyr took this moment to lean against the wall himself, glancing over at the Stark girl as he spoke. Lyarra blinked, her expression more serious than he'd ever seen.
"Chaos isn't a pit, Petyr. It's a ladder. If you're a step ahead of someone else, you're just a step behind another." In just a moment, Lyarra sounded as if she had entirely grown up. Her voice was mature, the word's coming out of it carried that she kept close to herself. Petyr looked at her then, properly, and moved forward before he could stop himself. For the second time that night the two were linked — his arms wrapped around her waist. In an instant, she did the same -- wrapping her own arms around his neck. The two found understanding within one another that they had never found within someone else. Beneath the light of the stars, they held one another close for much longer than they had to — and only began their journey back inside once they saw the sun peak over the hills.
The following morning, Lyarra was back on the road before she was even fully awake. Her goodbyes with Petyr were quick, away from the all-seeing eyes of her siblings. She held him close as she had the night before, and he grasped onto her hand. They made a quick promise to see one another again, and he was gone before she could say anything else. On their way out, Lyarra stuck close to Brandon. She fit into the side of his cloak as he towered over her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. The Tullys bid them farewell, Catelyn smiling softly at her intended -- While Lysa, on the other hand, was glaring daggers into Lyarra. She almost glanced behind her to see if the girl was staring at something else, before she'd realized it was surely meant for her. She moved closer to Brandon, and ignored his inquisitive gaze as they began their journey.
Lyarra tried to ignore the sorrow that threatened to overcome her at the thought of leaving her first true friend behind — but she did her best to steel herself, marching proudly at her brother's side. On the way there, she had hung back with her sister the whole trip — insistent on avoiding everything she could. This time, she wanted to be in the front. She wanted to know what was to come, what the future had in store for her. Come what may, Lyarra would be ready for it. Even if she was forced to live a life she had no care for — she knew that she had the support of a small boy from Riverrun. A boy who was certain to work his way to the top, at the cost of anyone around him. She couldn't help the burst of pride she felt at that, and her steps almost doubled in speed.
"Lyarra, don't run ahead! Wait for us!" Eddard called after her, but she was already well over the hill. She was eager to get home. More eager than she'd been in weeks. She no longer dreaded what was in store, rather she'd never been more ready.
Okay, So. There's that! The first official chapter of this story .. What did you guys think?? I'll warn everyone now, there won't be a Sandor appearance for a minute. I have too much storyline to build. This book is about Lyarra, not just their relationship. I am very excited to build that as I go along.
As you can see, Petyr plays a large role in this fanfic. I wouldn't classify this as a 'Petyr x reader', because the feelings that the two have for one another are confusing even to one another. They are each other's first true friend, and there will always be love between them for that. They have a very complicated relationship.
The next chapter will likely involve two of the main characters that I have yet to introduce, and further propell Lyarra down the road that she is meant to take. I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Young Petyr is so interesting to write. And yes, I gave myself creative leeway, and made it so Lyarra is the one to give Petyr the "Chaos is a ladder" idea. Sue me. They're really smart ten year olds, alright. There are dragons in this series, not everything has to make sense.
As always, feel free to leave any thoughts that you have in the comments! My tiktok is @vhenanfilms if you would like the see the edits I am making based on the series! Thank you all,
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀𝔖andor Clegane saw clearer then than he ever had - Lyarra Stark, the lone wolf, would never last a day in the Lion's den. To hell with it, he couldn't help but think. He cared not about winter - nor the pack surviving. He cared not for the Starks to begin with. What he did care about, was making sure the all-encompasing light of Lyarra's eyes never went out. Not while he still lived. ⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
ORIGINAL CHARACTER - Lyarra Stark. Twin to Lyanna, sister of Eddard, Benjen, and Brandon.
Lyarra Stark of Winterfell would give her life for her family, while Sandor Clegane would do everything in his power to keep her from doing so. ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀
— ⠀⠀INTRODUCING ⠀THE CAST OF ⠀⠀'THE LONG WINTER'
( any other characters not listed simply are casted with their usual faceclaim, or whatever comes to mind! these are just the /main/ characters . )
LYARRA ⠀STARK ⠀— ⠀THE ⠀LONE ⠀WOLF .
Played by Katie Mcgrath ( ... )
" You cannot ask me to stay — not when my wolf lays trapped in the jaws of a Lion .. "
SANDOR ⠀CLEGANE ⠀— ⠀THE HOUND ⠀.
Played by Rory McCann ( ... )
" Praying to your Gods, Little Wolf? Good, you're going to need them .. "
REYNE⠀ 'STARK' ⠀— ⠀THE ⠀LOST ⠀GIRL ⠀.
Played by Alicia Agneson⠀ ( ... )
" I will never allow my fear to overcome my love. Not while I still live .. "
GOGNI ⠀⠀— ⠀⠀THE ⠀⠀FREE ⠀⠀MAN .
Played by Travis Fimmel ( ... )
" I never knew a wolf to accept her cage as willingly as you have .. "
PETYR ⠀BAELISH ⠀— ⠀⠀LITTLEFINGER .
Played by Aidan Gillen ( ... )
" Trust no one — and yet make sure that everyone can trust you. Loyalty kills more men than fealty .. "
LYANNA ⠀STARK ⠀— ⠀⠀THE ⠀LOVED .
Played by Kaya Scodelario ( ... )
" Compassion came easy to her, Lyarra could recall. She had never met someone with more love in her heart, than her sister .. "
JON ⠀SNOW ⠀⠀— ⠀⠀THE ⠀BASTARD .
Played by Kit Harrington ( ... )
" I have only known one mother, my entire life. And now I am meant to watch in silence, as she leaves .. "
TYRION ⠀LANNISTER ⠀— ⠀THE ⠀IMP .
Played by Peter Dinklage ( ... )
" In my experience, it is a far easier feat to make a friend than an ally! So, let's drink, shall we? "
— Hello! My name is Zevran! I'll try to keep this short for the sake of my sanity. This is my first official fanfic, so bear with me as I work through this. This fic randomly came to my mind a few weeks ago, and I have not been able to escape it. Some things to note before I start this; Lyarra is not perfect. There will be times where she makes brass decisions, says rude things, and very clearly sides with the wrong people. One example of this, is the nature of her friendship with Petyr Baelish. Petyr is not a good person, and I will never deny this! But he is someone that Lyarra cares for greatly, so I will portray their relationship the best I can. Also, I have never read the books. I just started the first one, but considering I am now writing this -- that will definitely be a slow process. My timeline may be messy, especially considering I am creating my own events and timelines. So if I mess anything up, feel free to let me know -- but know I may not change everything.
Anyways, I hope you enjoy the fic -- and feel free to leave any kind of comment!
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