The Little Wolf

Her Nightmare Returns

Alongside Roseroad, Near to Highgarden

There was an old tower on the crest of the hill Lyra could see from her chambers in Winterfell.

Lyra often reminisced on this tower, and imagined herself, a knight, rescuing some distressed being from its highest point. Even in the darkness of King's Landing, the old tower remained in her mind - although, the meaning changed. No more was it a tower she would visit one day, for the tower, an old and crumbling ruin, now symbolized the desolate, shattered core of her mind. The tower became her.

It stood tall and beautiful, and in her innocence, Lyra imaged only purely the secrets it held. Now, Lyra realised, inside the tower was deep, dark and crumbling.

What was once was no more.

But, then again, it continued to shift and change. Much like her Soul returning, or the monster growling in her lowest depths, the tower, too, was capable of change.

It would rebuild as Ser Lyra trained with Ser Kaelo, and Trynn would join in with her spiked mace, her stubbornness refusing to spar with a sword.

It would rebuild as Nella, the white-haired, wrinkle covered lady, would prepare meals and mend clothes for Lyra, reminding her briefly of her own lost mother.

It would rebuild as Arkadah and Lyra bonded as Outsiders, feeling united in more ways than one, preparing in readiness for their departure from their hideaway near to Highgarden, and journey so far deep South into the Land of Always Winter, where they would meet the few remaining Outsiders inhabiting The Land of Souls.

The towers rebuilt, her Soul grew stronger, and while the monster continued to growl and threat, Lyra rose above it and learned to control it. What was once is no more, she continued to remind herself.

Ser Deacon had halted the joy in Lyra's life, and stripped her world of its colour. There, in the soul-destroying room she was imprisoned in, the vibrancy of her youth was shifted to a two-toned existence. She had escaped Ser Deacon physically, yet she would never escape him. As long as he was living, as long he was still eager to chase her, he held victory over her. Lyra often wondered if the cruel man would come back into her life.

One particular day, as departure to the Land of Souls was pending; she no longer needed to wonder. For, nothing that ever was would remain, and joviality was truly fleeting.

A man rode up to camp. Then another. Then another rode forth, until a group of fifteen stood in their hideaway, outnumbering Lyra's little band of companions.

And then, the leader of the group of mountainous guards rode forth. The man parted the crowd of men in golden cloaks and heavy armour, and stood tall in front of them.

No...Not a man...a beast.

His bald head shiny with sweat, his colossal body plated with the Gold armour she had fled upon her escape from King's Landing. He was larger than Lyra remembered, which was saying a lot as he was often compared to Lyra's tiny body, broken and crumpled on the floor. How could such a giant be any bigger, how could such a vile man even exist?

Through all of his changes, one thing remained the same in his appearance: His grin. Oh, how it still sent shivers down her spine, even after months void of his presence or nightly beatings. His teeth were like fangs, his tongue like a serpent, and if Lyra dared think about it, she could smell blood - old blood, new blood, her blood.

The beast was Ser Deacon, and Lyra, once more, felt herself become the victim. She wanted to scream and cry and beg and plead. She wanted to slip from her body and become one with the Earth, a mere wisp of dust sweeping across the barren land. She had felt herself become someone in the days past, but now she wanted to become no one.

'Kill me now, kill me quick!' she wanted to scream. Lev, having given up waiting for a command, shrunk to match Lyra's core...he shrunk to the smallest creature he could muster and hid himself behind the heel of Kaelo's boot. Down to the ground as a powerless insect he shrunk. He was cowardly and innocuous, but Lyra wished nothing more for her to be able to do the same. She wished to shrink and become an ant, then she could run away, back home, back to Winterfell.

Her Soul was petrified. Kaelo, mercifully understanding this of Lyra, grabbed her hand in one of his own, and drew Toothpick with the other. Chief came out growling from the shadows, like a ball of flame, and stood guard in front of his master, too.

Ser Deacon bared his fangs, and growled: "Vicious little monster". As an act of mercy, her body sent Lyra into a state of shock and panic. The memory stabbed her small body and pangs of every emotional ripped through her. Her lips quivered, her eyes pricked with salty tears, and her legs trembled until eventually they gave way from under her.

'Kill me now, kill me quick!' she thought to herself again.

"You thought you could escape me, Monster. You thought you could keep your Soul."

Arkadah stepped forward, mimicking Kaelo in shielding Lyra's crumpled form. "She is no longer yours to torment. The Outsider is stronger than you could ever know."

Strong? That's a laugh, she was a trembling mess. Going forward, Ser Deacon found it to be quite the joke too. He snarled and grinned and some saliva dribbled down his chin in his gaiety.

"Strong?" the beast asked, cocking his head to emphasize his confusion of such a word, "Look at her. The King and his royal mother shall find this quite the comedy."

While Ser Deacon was bickering with Arkadah and Kaelo, Lyra came to her senses, and from there, she saw her opportunity. An Outsider always has a plan. And now she was to come up with one, quicker then she had in the past. She drew Wolf from her belt, and locked eye contact with Trynn, who picked up her mace slowly.

The plan? Attack.

It was not a matter of who attacks who, as conflict was inevitable. Lyra considered that Ser Deacon would not leave without killing her companions and seizing Lyra once more - she had to make the first move.

She remained in her crumpled heap, not to risk drawing attention to her plan. It had been a while since she had thrown a knife, but she remembered Jon's lesson from the days in Winterfell.

The first lesson: Speed - "your enemy will not stand there and wait as you aim your weapon", Jon had preached. It had made Lyra chuckle once, but no longer did it do so.

The second lesson: Don't flinch - "A knight needs to have courage and a knight needs to have a steady hand. You can not flinch".

'Courage, Lyra', she told herself, imaging it was Jon beside her telling her the lesson.

"Stand up. Stand tall. Stand proud" was the final lesson she recalled.

Jon had told her that, and Lyra, in her innocence, had always tried to show it. She would not let Jon down.

She stood up, despite the bewildered look of her enemy.

She stood tall, despite the overwhelming feeling of wanting to curl up and die quickly under Ser Deacon's heavy hand.

She stood proud...she was an Outsider, and she would never be caged again.

She stood, breathed deeply, and then quickly threw the knife until it cracked into the skull of the man beside Ser Deacon.

Then all hell broke loose.