The Stormlands
"You have been raised by wolves, my dear knight", Kaelo was speaking at a whisper, "you have learned what many have not. You have learned the loneliness of a wolf, but the stealth of it, too."
The young Outsider was perched upon two slippery, algae-covered rocks. She jumped between the two with a sprightly step, maintaining her balance and keeping a keen eye on her prey - a clueless fish, swimming innocently in the stagnant water below. She was silent as Chief demonstrated many times on his hunts. She stalked her prey with the stillness of a wolf, but kept the watchful eye of an owl.
On occasion, her eye would catch the Monster's as it appeared in the reflection of the clear water. Its dead eyes would glare at Lyra, and reach its ghastly hand toward her. The girl would jump back, gasping in fright, losing her nimble-footed ways forthwith, causing her to plummet into the water and make a lasting ripple. The Monster would vanish, but out of the corner of her eye, she would see the dead. There was once a time, she recalled, she felt an odd companionship with them.
During the lonely days of her childhood, whether she'd be home in Winterfell or locked away in King's Landing, she would look at her surroundings before her and feel the loneliness of her life - but, the dead that lived in her peripheral vision would offer her an odd comfort. They never spoke, but if they could, Lyra, in her childhood innocence, would imagine them telling her that she was not alone.
Now, she wasn't so sure. She'd embraced the darkness willingly in nothing but a bid to survive, yet now she was so confused and torn. She had embraced the darkness unaware that in doing so she was introducing a Monster to her mind, and the damage it was doing - or could do - was debilitating.
How was she to explain such a feeling; she simply could not. Words were inadequate, and such feelings were overbearing to a girl so young. Lyra basked in her silence still, and though her mind screamed, her mouth could not form such words. It was as if she were laying down on a bed of serrated knives, each slicing through her flesh and ripping her insides to shreds. On either side of her, a different army fought a war; a harsh match of tug-of-war. Her Soul held one arm, the Monster held the other, and she could feel the agonizing pressure of feeling herself be ripped to shreds one bone, one muscle, one tendon at a time.
And she could do nothing to stop it. She had no words to speak, she had no trust to turn to Ser Kaelo by her side and allow herself to be protected. She had courage to rise, as the man had taught her, however, she didn't have the courage to trust again. Even she was an enemy to herself, a stranger to her own being.
So, she hunted.
The wolf within her howled at the moon - and it was only as she stared into the Monster's eyes, that she realised the moon within her, the moon that caused the little wolf to howl each night, was her Soul. And that, Lyra determined, was why she preferred the moon over the sun. She longed for the moon, much like a wolf, as she yearned for her Soul, like an Outsider.
In one quick movement, and a failed swish of its tail, the fish became aware of its predator and tried to flee, but the little wolf was too quick. Lyra lunged forward, makeshift spear in hand, and pierced the fish through its gills. It bled and struggled and suffered, until Lyra gave it a safe passage out of its misery. After all, death was the only mercy.
The prey was about the size of her arm, a considerable catch compared to the lean fish she had only been known to catch in the past. It was heavy and Lyra had to use all of her strength to heave its bleeding body out of the water.
Gently, Lyra tried to say a little prayer to the animal she had killed. She was praying to no one, but she had come to respect each creature, each tree and each sprout of algae as if they were each individuals worthy or respect.
"Forgive me!" her Conscience cried in all the softness and sweetness little Lyra Stark, trapped deep within her, an innocent victim of her own destruction, could muster.
Outwardly, no emotion flowed on the girls face. She reached through the blood and guts, endured through the dreadful smell, and proceeded to saw off the animals head with not a word, not a blink, not a flinch.
Kaelo stared at her like she had fallen from the sky. This girl was so strange to him, so odd, yet interesting like a closed book he just had to read. Kaelo watched as Lyra sawed of the head of the fish, threw it in the air, and allowed Lev, a magnificent white owl, to swoop down and seize his prey. Next, Lyra removed the scaled tail of the fish and flung it into Chief's snapping jaw. He swallowed it whole and opened his mouth, eagerly awaiting more.
Lyra cut the remaining body in half. She flung one half to Kaelo, who, in his fixed curiosity in this strange girl, failed to catch the fish and instead felt it slap him hard in the face. Red appeared from the hard, scaled slap, but he didn't care. Instead he chuckled to himself and his eyes sparkled in admiration at Lyra.
"Thank you, Ser!" he said with glee, before sinking his teeth into its flesh.
While Kaelo ate, Lyra stared at him in her own curiosity. She knew he had once meant a lot to her, but the happiness had been pushed so far back in her mind, she knew it would take a quest to retrieve it.
Happiness.
Lyra had all but forgotten what happiness was; she could not recall what it meant to be happy, but she vaguely remembered the feeling. Warm. Warm like the summers sun settling on her head. Warm like her father's smile shining down on her. Warm like her mother's kisses, or Bran's sweetness, or Rickon's playful antiques or Robb's protectiveness. Warm like Jon giving her a piggyback ride through the halls of Winterfell.
Happiness was warmth, she thought, waiting and wishing for an echo from Lev, but there was nothing. She curled up in a ball and ignored the coldness; the bitterness and bite of the wind, mimicking the cruelty of the world. Warmth had retreated the moment she had felt the slight warmth of her father's blood, and her world continued to grow colder and darker every day Ser Deacon's axe handle would smack down hard on her innocent little frame.
She uncoiled herself, and like a snake, she slithered to bathe in the sun. She was hidden in a forest so dense the sunlight would barely break through the heads of the trees, but when it did it offered the odd ray of light; a ray of warmth. In the sun, she remembered more of the feeling she'd lost.
Her world had grown colder when she moved to King's Landing, she recalled. Yet, there was one ray of light that kept it fun, and that ray was a man who thought himself a knight, and she too.
Kaelo. The man of such a name offered warmth, she remembered. She would grin when she would see him, and he would cackle at the sky like it was telling him a joke. She would sword fight with him, dream of him, long for him, and ache for him like she did her own family.
Realisation suddenly hit her, and she felt like something small came alive within her once again. Like little, sweet Lyra, scared, trapped and alone in the chasm of her emptiness and brutality, found a gap in the rubble and reached her hand through.
She looked over and saw the man's face. His eyes were sad, looking at the girl like it broke his heart. And it was then that she realised the truth: it did.
She was so broken, so detached, so cold and merciless, but alive in the man's memories of the warmer days they'd shared together. There, basking in the sunlight, she allowed a small crack to open in her mind. She remembered Toothpick, Ser Kaelo and Ser Lyra fighting side by side on an imaginary battle field. More than that, she not only remembered - she remembered fondly.
The man, as if he knew what she was thinking smiled gently at her. Warmth.
He moved onto his knees, and extended his hand, slowly, toward Lyra. Then he spoke, "You are Lyra Stark".
The name rattled around in her head, a ghost of a person long gone. Perhaps they were once, but they were now no more. Yet, it kept coming back to her- Lyra Stark. Lyra Stark. Lyra Stark.
The name only rang one bell in her mind, and for that she spat, "Vicious little monster!"
Kaelo shook his head sadly, and the girl spat again, "Monster!"
"No, you are Lyra. You are my Little Knight."
"Monster", she said softly, like a gentle breeze.
Kaelo sighed and reached for the smooth rocks on the ground. Everyday, in ritualized actions, Lyra would spread out the stones with the names of her family and encircle them around her. Each name was tenderly and meticulously carved with much love, but intense sorrow. Sometimes, Lyra would move the family out of the circle and into other positions. Eddard and Catelyn would stand together, while Robb, Jon, Bran, Rickon, Sansa and Arya would be separate.
"Where are you?" Kaelo asked, and when Lyra didn't respond, he continued, "You have a rock for everyone in your immediate family, yet you don't have one for you?"
Lyra's silence was still deafening, and Kaelo was beginning to get restless. He reached forward toward Jon, and before he could pick up the rock, Lyra smacked his hand away, snarled like a wolf and gathered up her family like a she-wolf, protecting her cubs.
They were more than stones, Kaelo realised, they were all she had left of her family. And, in an odd way, all she had left of herself; her old self.
Voices swam to her head. They started out faint, but grew louder. Lyra scratched at her ears to stop the noise, but ceased her clawing when she noticed Kaelo drawing Toothpick and standing guard. Chief had his hackles standing up and was growling, and Lev had taken off to scope from the sky.
The voices were not in her head. The voices were real, and they were coming.
Warmth retreated, and the coldness of her world returned. Fear, hatred, rage, and emptiness returned.
She braced herself and readied for more destruction.
But then, just as she was ready to throw her sword and plunge into a deeper darkness and state of loss, the strangest of sights blundered onto the path.