Winter Is Coming

They stayed at the Wolf's Head Inn for two nights. Lyra barely slept. And when she did, her dreams were filled with visions of her father shoved to his knees, a sword raised above his head, the whoosh of the blade, the silence. Sometimes she could hear her sisters' screams and the roars of the crowd and see her father's broken body slumped on the ground, limp, lifeless. Waking was no better. Waking brought a numbness to the world so that everything passed by in dulled figures and blurred sounds, and she felt like she was once more in a dream. Only she was still in all the whispers of movement and life, a bit of rock in a stream.

"My Lady, you must eat."

The familiar voice was far away and yet near. She didn't want to eat. The thought of swallowing anything down her dry throat made her want to throw up. Richard slid a plate of some meat in front of her. She turned her stinging eyes away from it. Sighing, he sat opposite her at the small round wooden table. Light streamed in through the large window. Daylight.

"Starving yourself will help no one."

Slowly, she raised her eyes to his. "I don't want to eat." She surprised even herself by how dead her voice sounded.

"My Lady, you cannot avenge your father if you are dead."

Avenge your father.

Yes, she thought, yes, that sounded good. Pain and suffering to those who had done this to her, to him. Yet what would it do, in the end? It couldn't take away this endless pain and it couldn't bring him back. Nothing could bring him back. He was gone and was never coming back. Revenge would achieve nothing.

Just so that Richard would shut up, Lyra lifted her fork and began to pick at the food, trying not to wrinkle her nose.

"My Lady..." He sounded tentative, nervous. "My Lady, I fear we must set out for Winterfell today." The words sounded as if they had been rehearsed, as if he was worried she might snap.

Lyra was silent. What she feared above all else was that she would start to forget details of him. What her father had looked like, sounded like, what it had felt like when he held her. Already he was beginning to fade. Had his eyes been more sea-green, or leaf-green? She couldn't remember. And she'd never get the chance to find out.

All these people around her kept on eating and talking and laughing, laughing; continued on with their lives as if a bright light hadn't been extinguished. She hated the world for continuing on. Was her father not worth far more? Perhaps if she never left his room, this Inn, she would never have to continue on with it. Did her brothers continue on? Her mother, her sisters? Arya and Sansa, did they weep?

She blinked. Arya and Sansa. What would happen to them now? They were alone and vulnerable, now more than ever. Who would protect them now? She gave up pretending to pick at her food and looked at Richard, seated across the table with sadness and pity on his face as he watched her.

"I will not ride to Winterfell," she said. Lyra raised her chin, eyes red-rimmed and heavy-lidded. "I will ride to King's Landing."

It looked as if it took a moment for the word's to register in Richard's head. Then his eyes widened. "You will ride to where?"

"To King's Landing."

There was silence. Richard leaned back in his chair. He shook his head. "I know you want revenge, Lyra," he said carefully. "I do, too. But are you mad? You cannot walk into the Lion's den, not if you want to walk out again."

Lyra smiled, but it was a smile devoid of humour or kindness. "I do not go there for revenge," she said mildly. "I go to protect those who are without protection." She held his gaze with frank openness. This was not madness; this was duty. "My sisters, Arya and Sansa; they need me."