The Little Wolf

Unimaginable Hate

King's Landing

The fighting never ceased. The swords continued to clash, and men continued to scream and jeer. 

Lyra didn't know how long she had huddled there - probably only minutes - but it felt like a lifetime. Bile, spilled from her guilt and grief, stuck on her dress, mingling with the blood of other men. 

The guard's blood was still wet on Wolf, so she knew it hadn't been long. She closed her eyes and wiped the bloodied blade on a lonely tuft of grass, before fastening him back in his sheath. Telling herself softly, "Courage, Lyra", she peered around the corner. She had escaped through the gate, and she could see her way out, however, there were more obstacles blocking her way, and she still had to run through the streets that winded to and from the castle under siege. 

Nimbly and assertively, she jumped from shadow to shadow, holding her breath each time someone came by, regardless of them being guard or civilian. She knew now, she could not trust anyone. 

She saw a small figure, only a slight bit larger then her, up ahead. The figure, too, was huddled in the darkness. Lyra pressed herself against the wall harder, praying it wouldn't turn around. No sooner after she had pressed herself against the wall had the small figure risen and grown into a girl. A girl with a sword.

Arya.

On one hand Lyra wanted to scream to her sister, letting the relief that suddenly flooded her race out to meet the world. On the other, more timid, hand, she knew both were in danger. Arya rose and began to sneak away, and Lyra followed, moving quickly to catch up.

"Arya" she hissed. Arya spun around, Needle at the ready - waiting to skewer her. The tip of her blade was speckled with blood, and Lyra felt a sense of understanding. They were both now killers, but together they could be warriors. Together, perhaps, they could find Sansa and Father, Lyra would free Chief, who remained locked in the dungeons, and the five of them would journey together back to Winterfell.

As quickly as Arya had drawn her sword, she dropped it at the sight of her sister, and Lyra felt herself crushed against Arya's chest, embraced in the tightest hug the two had ever shared. "Thank the Gods...", was all Arya could stutter through tears, and Lyra found herself in tears, too. 

Soon, the moment concluded, and the fight for survival and escape continued to be endured. Pointing at an abandoned street store up ahead, the two girls agreed to run at different times to avoid inconspicuousness. Arya first, as she had ordered, to ensure the path was clear for Lyra. A wave alerted Lyra over, and she uncoiled herself from her tiny ball and scampered onto the footpath, in pursuit of her sister. 

Yet as Lyra had raced onto the path, Arya's "come over" wave ceased, and was replaced with a wary "go back" wave. Startled, Lyra found herself torn between to directions, her brain not deciding what was safest quick enough. She looked up to find a hefty man thundering toward her.

It was Ser Deacon, the bald man from King's Landing, the man who believed mercy most certainly did not exist. He seemed larger than he had before; perhaps because of his armour, or perhaps because he was now chasing after her, growing larger as he approached.

Arya rushed onto the path, out of her hiding spot, and grabbed Lyra's wrist with one hand, bearing Needle in the other. As Ser Deacon approached the pair, they split and raced into different directions. Arya sliced her sword through the air, only to miss and anger the beast of a man. Angrier now, he drew his sword and plunged it toward Arya, who thankfully jumped back before it could slice her. Ser Deacon swung the blade again, high above his head, and it came crashing down on the ground, forcing the beast to growl in rage.

With a plank of wood Lyra had found strewn on the ground, she picked it up and smashed it over the man's head. She expected a reaction of pain, but she failed to get it. He had naught but a scratch on his thick skull, and now turned to face Lyra. He grabbed her silks and pulled her close, grabbing her around the neck with one hand, trying to stop Arya whacking him with the other. Lyra bit the man's hand, and he let go and smacked her clear across the face with his heavy hand, sending her to the ground - blood spilling out between her lips, a white baby tooth lodged in the mud below.

She was in agony, and her Soul could tell. Soon she witnessed Lev glide through the alleyway, and target the colossal man. 

'No, Lev, no!' her mind screamed, but it was much to late. Lev swooped in and revealed himself before Ser Deacon's vicious eyes. The man let go of Arya, who immediately sprinted out of range. Lyra's Soul pecked at the man, but he only glared at the girl, rage billowing like fire within him. His face twisted into unimaginable hate as he screamed, "Outsider! Vicious monster!" 

Lev raced out of the way, and Lyra attempted to do the same- screaming "Run, Arya!" as she hastily tried to do so herself. Ser Deacon picked up a nailed plank of wood in his hand and swung the wood, slamming it down upon the tiny girl's frame. 

First there was a crack. Then mind-numbing pain. Then darkness speckled her vision.

"Monster!" the man bellowed, and kicked her as she lay prone. "Monster!" he continued to spit, as a crowd amassed and did the same - spitting on the lifeless little body, jeering and calling her a monster and vermin and other foul atrocities. No, Southerner's most certainly did not like Outsiders.

Through her blood, tears and blurred vision, she nodded ever so slightly, and incredibly weakly, at the figure she knew was her sister. The figure's eyes screamed all the regrets and sympathies her voice could not muster, before doing what Lyra prayed for: She fled.

Before the man could reach her, Lyra focused on the last feeling of warmth she knew she would feel, the last feeling of happiness - her sister had escaped.