Winter Is Coming

The Wolf and the Lion

Pig-shit.

Every street in every slum in every pocket of King's Landing smelled like pig-shit. Lyra still wondered what had driven her to walk through the puddles of piss and mud and the Gods knew what else that pooled on every cobblestone. Pig-shit, most likely. Perhaps she had come here to wander amongst the beggars and the homeless to remind herself how meaningless her own suffering was. Perhaps she had come here simply because she had nowhere else to go. Arya was at one of her dancing lessons, and Sansa... Well, Sansa did not want to see her.

On the street ahead of her, a small girl tugged at her mother's sleeve. They were huddled against the wall at the side of the street, the little girl curled on her mother's lap.

"What is it, little one?" The mother's voice was cracked and dry, full of long suffering. Lyra paused where she stood, her attention snagged.

"I want to see father," the girl whimpered. "Why doesn't he come home anymore?"

The mother tightened her hold on her child, swallowing hard. "He can't come home anymore, little one," she whispered, her voice breaking. "No matter how much he loves you."

"But why? Doesn't he care for us anymore?"

The mother looked away.

"Of course he cares for you," Lyra said suddenly, stepping towards them. The mother looked up at her with suspicion and wariness written over her dirt-stained features. Cautiously, Lyra knelt in front of the girl. "He cares for you very much, and you will see him again one day, I promise."

The girl seemed to shrink further into her mother's arms. "Who are you?" she whispered, her voice small.

"I'm Lyra Stark," she told her. "Don't be afraid, I won't hurt you." Lyra reached for the hairpin that pinned back her hair and tugged it free. "Here," she said, holding it out. It was fashioned like a silver dragonfly, with a sharp sword for a tail. "Take it. I don't need it."

The girl extended a trembling hand and took it. Lyra smiled. She wished she could do more, but she had nothing else to give them.

"Thank you, my Lady," the mother said, though she looked as if she expected some kind of punishment for this kindness.

"You must not call me 'my Lady', I..."

Someone — a man — screamed from the courtyard at the far end of the street. Lyra whipped her head towards it. There was a clash of swords, and the grunt of fighting men. And that scream... It was the sound of a man dying.

Lyra shot to her feet, her hand going to the hilt of her sword only to find it wasn't there. The girl began trembling. Lyra swallowed her own fear and dread, giving a last lingering glance at the mother and her child, still holding each other tight, and ran. She took off down the street, her boots splashing through the mud so that it splattered up her dress, sprinting towards the source of that scream.

She rounded the corner at the end of the street and skidded into the courtyard, her heart hammering fit to burst. A semi-circle of guards in Lannister red-and-gold blocked her view of the centre of the space. But she could see the two Stark guards, lying on the ground before a brothel's open door, spears protruding from their chests, dead. Lyra have a cry of horror, her feet still carrying her forward. She shoved her shoulder against one of the Lannister guards, pushing him aside, and skidded to a halt, the courtyard in full view.

There was her father, his sword drawn, two Lannister guards already dead beside him, and there was Richard fighting with him, and then there was Jaime Lannister, his own sword gleaming in the southern sun, a smirk on his face as he raised his sword against Jory's assault.