The Little Wolf

Unchained

King's Landing

The islands of mercy were few and far between these days. Occasionally she could mount an island, rest and recuperate, before slipping back into the murky waters of mercilessness, rage and delusion.

Through the night, she would silently howl to the moon through the small window above her, and somewhere, she dreamed, her pack was taking up the sorrowful yowl. The Stark's would always endure, despite the harshness of the storm. The pack would always survive. It brought her peace to know they were connected by the moon, and far out there, the stars that littered the sky, she was determined, was her father smiling down. 

"You are my little wolf", her father's memory comforted you. Her mind was possessed by a demon crueller and darker than any she'd ever imagined, the monster grew stronger, but so did her father's memory. Where there was memory, there was love and light. And where the combination of those two were, so was Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, the bravest and most honourable man she had ever known.

His body may have died, but he did not. He merely left the game, but his flame still burned, and Lyra knew it was up to her to carry his candle. She was going to be like him. She was going to be stern and strong, yet kind and merciful. She was going to wear tall boots like her father did, and pants and vests. She was going to be big like him. Generations would know of his name, her children would listen to stories of him. Eddard was alive. Her father was her God, now that hers had failed her. They had slinked out of existence, but where they once burned bright, her father now stood.

Littered to all horizons, her family was scattered. Ser Deacon had come in and bragged about Robb going to war to save their father, but consequently failing. The cruel man pretended her oldest brother was dead, that Robb had been slaughtered, his body butchered, but Lyra knew he was alive. So was her mother and brother and sisters. Lev knew, and in her Soul she knew only her father was flying free.

Robb was going to rescue her, and if not, Lyra would find a way to rescue him. They would pick up the pieces of their broken lives and return to Winterfell, or the Land of Souls beyond the Wall. 

Still, she howled. She knew her direwolf could hear, he was closer than Lyra had considered. His whimpering would occasionally break through her ambiguous thoughts, and she would emerge and want so desperately to howl back.

She was in yet an other state of delusion, a place she ventured to frequently. When she was unable to haul herself onto an island of mercy, an island of salvation, she would drown in the sea surrounding it. And drowning is all she felt like she did these days.

She splashed in a mad frenzy, screaming out, but no one would hear. The screams were in her mind, as was her drowning, and only her Soul could hear. But even he was unable to rescue her. She was falling deeper and deep into the vast sea, even the light of her father shone was hard to see. A voice called for her in the distance, but she couldn't hear. She clawed for the surface of the water, but waves continued to topple her, throwing her little body around. The inaudible voice called for her again. And again. It never stopped. Finally, in one thrust to the surface, a firm hand grabbed her and shook her.

The hand shook her body hard, and she felt her body rattle against the floor. She was not drowning - that was all in her mind - she was still in the same cell.

"Monster", the voice said. The words were the same, but the voice was different. It was not the dark tone, rough and harsh like she was used to hearing from Ser Deacon. It was the voice of a younger person. Not a young child, but a child who was not yet a man grown. 

"You are a monster" the strange voice spoke again. Lyra heard the crash of a piece of wood being thumped against the iron bars of her cage. The sound following was that of footprints, and the cold fingerprints running across the back of her neck. Lyra flinched at the touch, and closed her eyes wishing to disappear. 

The strange person walked around in front of Lyra's face, stepping over her chains with tall black boots. He crouched down by his victims side and pried her eyes open with his cold hands. Lyra tried her best to squeeze her eyes shut, but the boy pried them open. Just as she began to focus on the boy's face, he hawked up some spit and shot it into her eyes. He grabbed her hair and when her head was pulled back, he spat on her again, repeating "monster" over and over again.

"There is no such thing as mercy", a firmer voice spoke behind her, and Lyra recognised it as Ser Deacon. There were two of him. She was better off dead.

Unsure where her Soul had flown too, she whispered in her mind to Lev, "If the kill us tonight, I shall be ready to die. I will greet death as I would a friend."

Ser Deacon interrupted her thoughts by doing the oddest thing he had done in months: He unchained her. And just as Lyra looked up at him, she saw him give the toad of a boy an affectionate shoulder squeeze. Whether he was Ser Deacon's son, or minion, they were both awful. She didn't care for any of them.

"Grab her, boy. I give you the honours", Ser Deacon said, somewhat softer than he usually spoke.

The boy smirked and grabbed her by the collar of her tattered dress, but it wasn't before long when his mentor snapped and snapped, "How I told you, boy!" 

The boy let go of Lyra's collar and grabbed her hair, before pulling her to her feet. She had not stood in well over a month, and her legs were exceedingly weak. She faltered and stumbled to the hard ground with a thump. The boy just smirked at her and laughed, before dragging her along the ground.

She hit every wall and every rock, and felt small pebbles and sticks lodge into her back as it ripped through her dress and planted into her skin. 

She was taken down flights of stairs to a much smaller, darker room with no window. The boy launched her into the dungeon, but she was not binded by any chains. Ser Deacon gave the boy another affectionate squeeze of her shoulder and offered him an encouraging nod, before storming out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

"No one will hear you scream down here, you little bitch" the boy snapped, spitting in her eyes as he spoke, "your screams were keeping everyone awake. Even precious Sansa."

The sound of her sister's name sparked a flame that she thought was gone. Sansa. Oh how she missed her sister. 

"No one will show you mercy down here. No one will find you", the interrupted her thoughts of her sister. They knew of mercy; they were aware of the mercy shown to her by Tyrion and Pod a while ago. 

The boy squatted down next to her and grabbed her neck, forcing her to look him in the eyes. He had a fat, sweaty face, murky blue eyes and ears that were too big for his head. His hair was lang and oily, dripping down his face. His teeth were crooked and yellow, and his breath smelled of smoke. He was about the age of Robb and Jon, she determined. He was hideous and cruel. She hated him. Hatred had never sparked so soon inside her - not since the hellish months that had passed her by.

The boy removed his belt and wrapped one end around his hand, readying the other to whip Lyra's tiny body. The belt struck her and the girl winced in pain, but she was able to distract herself. His blows were not as hard as Ser Deacon's, for which she was thankful. Her mind wandered to the door behind him..

A door.

Not a cage, a room with a door.

A door. No chains. And, as the boy had stupidly informed Lyra, no one around to hear her scream.

No one around...to see her escape.