Winter Is Coming

Look After Us

The corridors of the Tower of the Hand were as cold and empty as the rest of the Red Keep as Lyra marched through them, rage and fear still battling for dominance within her. But now a new emotion had joined them; shame. This was exactly what her father had warned her against happening.

After her outburst at the tournament, Lyra's feet had carried her to the one place she felt safest — her father's chambers. Now she stormed down the corridor that led to his study, where he was most likely to be found. She had passed the Queen on her way heading in the opposite direction, but she had not had time to wonder what Cersei Lannister was doing in the Tower of the Hand, and as she approached the door it was driven almost completely from her mind. Jory stepped forward from where he stood guarding the entrance.

"Lady Lyra," he cried. "Shouldn't you be at the tournament?"

"I need to speak to my father," was all she said, her voice terse.

He must have sensed her urgency, because he stepped aside with a polite bow of his head. Lyra stepped past him and burst into the room.

Ned started from where he had been stood with his hands braced upon the back of his chair, looking up in surprise as his daughter flung the door wide, then spun on her heel and shut it just as violently.

"Lyra!" he cried, straightening up. "What are you doing here?"

Lyra met his gaze across the room, and his confusion and concern sapped some of the remaining wrath from her bones. Her shoulders slumped. Now there was only the fear and the shame.

"I'm sorry, father," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"What is it? Lyra, what have you done?"

"I lost my temper." She couldn't meet his gaze. She expected him to shout, or push her for more information, but he just waited. "At the tournament. Just like you told me not to. Lord Baelish... He was threatening Sansa, father! I couldn't just sit there and watch. I got angry, and I... I lost control."

She finally looked up and met Ned's gaze. He didn't look angry, didn't look furious like she'd expected him to — he hardly ever was, and he never shouted at her. He just looked sad, disappointed. He drew a deep breath that made his broad chest expand.

"Lyra," he said, his voice heavy. "I told you not to let that happen. You realise what position this puts us in?"

"I know, father," she whispered. She felt like crying. She dreaded his disappointment far more than his wrath. It was like she had failed him. "I'm so sorry. I'm supposed to be able to prevent this now... I'm sorry." She took a shaky breath. She hadn't cried in front of him since she was a child, and she was not going to do so now. She turned away, but her fear and shame and guilt were too much. She wiped impatiently at her face.

"Hey," Ned said gently. "It's all right."

He crossed the room, his footsteps hurried, and put his strong arms around her, holding her head to his chest with a large hand. "It's all right, Lyra," he murmured. "I'm not angry with you, I promise."

She closed her eyes for a long moment as Ned held her, the ache in her chest almost too much to bear. As long as he was protecting her no matter what, Lyra thought, nothing too awful could happen. It was a childish thought, and stupid, but somehow she could never quite let go of it. She held him tighter, his leather doublet soft and supple beneath her palms. He did not let her go until she whispered,

"What will happen to Sansa and Arya? Will Littlefinger hurt them?"

He released her but did not step away, placing a hand on her shoulder. He searched her face for a long moment before replying.

"I don't think so. Not now, anyway. I think he'll be more... interested. He'll want to know what it is that turns your eyes black." He smiled gently. "I won't let him hurt you. Any of you."

"And what if there's nothing you can do?" she whispered.

He sighed, his eyes flicking away from her face. "I don't know, Lyra," he admitted eventually. "I just don't know."

She nodded, recognising that he didn't want to let her see how vulnerable he was, primarily to protect her, but he would not lie to her. Ned tightened his grip on her shoulder, drawing her attention back to his face.

"You said Lord Baelish threatened Sansa," he said, his tone serious. "What kind of threat?"

"He just... he told her the story of The Mountain and The Hound, and he said that if The Hound ever heard her mention it, all the knights in King's Landing wouldn't be able to save her."

It didn't sound nearly as bad when she said it now, and she couldn't help feeling embarrassed at what Ned must see as an overreaction on her part. It was a testament to her father's respect for her pride that he did not comment on this, only saying,

"All right, lass. Thank you for telling me." He smiled. "Just try not to stick Lord Baelish with your sword, all right?"

She huffed. "I'll try not to, father."

Ned let go of her shoulder and made his way back to his desk. His shoulders seemed weighted down with worry and responsibility.

"I'm sorry, father," she said again.

"Don't worry, Lyra," he told her. He paused, then added, "but I'd advise not to go to any other days of the tournament. It's best not to risk it."

Lyra nodded. She understood why, and she didn't really think of it as much of a punishment, but she couldn't shake the feeling of being contaminated and untrustworthy. With a heavy sigh, she turned towards the door.

"I should go," she said as she did so.

Ned looked up. "If you want to, lass," he said.

She smiled, and put a hand on the doorknob, but hesitated. She didn't know what, exactly, had jogged her memory, but she'd suddenly remembered something she wanted to ask.

"I saw Cersei Lannister leaving here earlier," she said, a little cautiously. "What did she want?"

"Nothing of importance," her father told her, and it almost sounded like he only said it to protect her, but she trusted him enough to believe him. "She only wished to know why I was not at my tournament."

Lyra snorted. "Your tournament? More like the King's."

Ned laughed. "Don't get me started."

She chuckled, rolling her eyes, but Ned's smile slowly faded, to be replaced by a look of tired weariness, the lines of his face heavy with care.

"Stay safe, Lyra," he said softly. "That's all I ask."

She met his gaze and nodded. "And you, father. Promise me..." She swallowed hard. "Promise me you'll look after us. Promise me you'll always look after us, all of us, no matter what." Her, her sisters, her brothers, Catelyn... She blinked. "Please?"

Her father's eyes were full of love laced with pain and apprehension. "I promise," he told her gently, solemnly. "Always."