2
CERSEI LANNISTER
Cersei paced her chambers furiously, face creased in concern. Tyrion, her Dwarf brother, had told informed his family that the Stark boy was expected by the Maester to live that morning at breakfast, utterly horrifying her. Jaime pushed him from the tower and he did not die from the fall, it clearly does take a lot to kill a Stark.
"You heard the Imp," she snapped. "They think the boy shall survive. What if he does, Jaime? What if he points the finger at us? What then?"
Cersei scowled as she looked at Jaime, who seemed utterly unconcerned. Her green eyes narrowed at his smirking face. If the Stark boy lives and most importantly remembers what he saw, she knew that she, Jaime, and her children would be executed by Robert himself, most likely. He'd probably try and marry the Stark bitch afterwards.
If the Jon Arryn was able to find out about her and her brother, she wondered how many would follow after him, including the boy, and just how easy it would for be for them. It didn't take a fool to realise that none of Cersei's golden-haired children looked anything like Robert. Cersei remembered the look that Lyarra, the eldest of the Stark girls, had given her when she came to offer her condolences for the boy's fall. It was a knowing look, like she was silently telling her that she knew what her and Jaime had done.
"She knows something about us. Lyarra knows something," Cersei insisted. "I do not know of what or how she knows, but she knows something. She is too dangerous, no good can come of her in the South. I know of the girl – of her supposed prophecies. The girl must be touched or something, nothing about her is – is good."
"I doubt she will come to King's Landing, Cersei. She cares for that younger Stark boy far too much. Look at them, he hasn't left her side since we arrived, and she clings to him just as much." Her twin brother said reassuringly, raising his eyebrows. "Or will you ask that I get him alone and push the other young Stark boy from the tower as well, to truly prevent her from coming? So long as you are calm and let nothing slip, we have nothing to worry about, Cersei. She is just a girl, she has no power. This is nothing but paranoia."
"I'll have her wed," Cersei informed her twin, cogs turning in her head already. "I will have her matched to someone as far from us as possible, where I can be sure that she can't open her fucking mouth. Dorne, perhaps, to a Martell. Or I will have her wed into a barbaric mountain tribe if that will keep her away, like the Targaryen bitch to the Dothraki."
She looked at him with a piercing gaze as his chortles and chuckles became loud laughter, causing her to scoff and turn away, stalking towards the window. Cersei looked out into the courtyard with disdain, she saw the Stark girl walk around the yard with the youngest of the wild, feral wolf children, who clutched to her skirts like a fly to shit. She did not like the fact that her dear Joffrey would marry the little dove, despite her being easy enough to manipulate, she did not want to be in relations with the likes of the Stark's. Starks and Lannisters never got along; wolves and lions did not mix.
"Yes, Cersei. I am sure her mother and father will happily accept your proposal," Jaime leered sarcastically. "You've seen how Ned dotes on her, more so than her sisters. He's turned down proposals from every Northern Lord in the Kingdom, even a few from the Riverlands. What makes you think this would be any different?"
"They would not deny such an offer from the Queen of Westeros." She sneered, folding her arms. "I will have a word with them before we leave."
"And what will you tell the King?" Jaime questioned lesiurely. "Her likeness to the Lady Lyanna has not gone unnoticed. He, too, looks at her with desire. Robert wouldn't let any man other than him come within ten feet of her."
She closed her eyes when she heard him move towards her. He placed his hands firmly on her bare shoulders and began to kiss down her neck, she let out a small noise of disgust at the thought of the fat oaf and the wolf bitch, and reopened her eyes. Cersei saw the girl having words with her devil of a little sister, and plots began to form in her mind.
"What he doesn't know, can't hurt him," Cersei responded simply.
"You are a fool if you think that would work, Cersei." Jaime replied, pausing as he lay his chin on her shoulder, causing her brows to furrow. "Robert will not let some foreign Lord nor barbarian steal away his Lady Lyanna from him once again. Do you honestly believe this? Have you not seen the way he looks at her? Lady Lyarra Stark may be a wolf bitch but a fool, she is not. Perhaps she will overthrow you? Let her dig her teeth into that fat oaf. I can have you."
Queen you shall be… Maggy the Frog's voice taunted as she stared intently down at the mad girl dressed in the colours of her house, who was making her way back into the castle alone. Cersei tensed. Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear.
Cersei let out a scoff of disbelief as she pushed Jaime away. She her way over to take a goblet of the horrible Northern wine and downed it quickly, before prowling out of her chambers and down to Lord Stark's study, ready to organise a marriage.
Lyarra Stark would not be doing any casting aside, not while I still have breath in my lungs. I'll choke before I let that bitch take my crown. Let the Dornish have her while I piss on that bitch's grave – her grave and her prophecies.
LYARRA STARK
Mother had not left Bran's side since he was pushed from the tower by the Kingslayer. She looked dreadful as she sat vigil by the unconscious boy – her hair had long since began to hang limply around her face, the past days suddenly adding years to her pretty face. Lyarra didn't suppose she looked much better, though; with her mother lost to her own grief and father busy entertaining King Robert, the duty of looking after her younger siblings and many of her mother's normal responsibilities fell to her in Catelyn's self-induced absence.
At first she had understood, but now exhaustion and frustration as the weeks had gone by had prompted her patience to wear thin. Lyarra stared ahead at Robb, Theon and Jon blankly as they sparred in the training yard, Rickon in her arms. He buried his face in her neck and furs, tears streaming out of his eyes as he wept for their brother – Lyarra wanted nothing more than to cry, too. She had tried everything to soothe him, she sang and danced, and rocked him back-and-forth, but nothing worked, he simply tightened his grip around her neck and continued to sob. No one was thinking about how she felt, simply telling her that she was doing a good job briefly before leaving to offer condolences to her parents. The situation hurt her; it hurt that she could not tell them that he would wake, or what truly happened without being beheaded for treason or witchcraft. All Lyarra could do was repeat mantra he will be fine to her brothers and sisters.
The whole castle was tense and even Arya was acting different, making more and more unconvincing excuses to remain at her side along with Rickon. Lyarra knew she missed mother, and it pained her to know that this was the beginning of the little light inside of Arya starting to dim. Soon it will be nothing but a flicker, because she will be nothing, she will be no one.
"Arya, take Rickon and go to your brothers," Lyarra ordered as she set down the reluctant Rickon, who clutched to her leg when she did.
"He doesn't want to leave you. He'll cry," Arya replied immediately, and she raised an eyebrow slightly, knowing that her sister was using the hold Rickon had over her to her full advantage. She knew that Arya, in truth, did not want to leave her side either. "We have to stay with you."
"He's already crying," Lyarra spoke harshly, but regretted it upon seeing the look on Arya's face. Sighing softly, she reached out and touched her cheek softly. "I'll be in the hall for dinner," she offered, hoping that if she would stay in the hall to eat, which she rarely did, would make them leave but it didn't work. She sighed once more, bending down slightly and smoothing out Rickon's damp and unruly hair. "Now, off you go. Both of you. Please, Arya."
Arya hesitated. "Do you promise you'll be there for supper?"
She held out her pinkie finger to her youngest sister, who smiled for the first time since Bran fell. He didn't fall, a voice in her head said, he was pushed by the Kingslayer who had been fucking his sister, the Queen. Never forget that, Lyarra. "I pinkie promise," Lyarra swore, and Arya wrapped her little finger around her own, nodding. I had never broken a pinkie promise.
Arya eyed her momentarily and huffed, seeming satisfied that she would hold up on her end of the bargain, before snatching Rickon by the hand and dragging her brother, who sniffed and pouted, towards Robb, Theon and Jon. Arya's lips were moving quickly but it seemed her message was being delivered, as Robb's blue eyes flickered to his twin and she nodded lightly to him, relieved. Robb bent down low and hoisted Rickon into the air as Jon took Arya by the hand, leading them into the castle with Theon trailing slightly behind them, no doubt annoyed that they couldn't spar anymore.
Cracking her back, she sighed quietly at the relief of not having to carry Rickon around everywhere. He has no longer a babe, and the weight of him on her hips left her muscles sore. However, Lyarra found herself missing the comfort his presence, along with Arya's, brought her – they made her feel stronger than she truly was with how they looked to her as if she just knew. Lyarra didn't know what they thought she knew, but pretending made it seem okay, even if it was only for a second.
Turning from the training yard with Fenrir following her dutifully, Lyarra entered the castle and navigated the corridors, arriving at Bran's room quickly. Knocking on the door of Bran's chambers, she waited for a response, but got none. Scowling at the door, imagining it was her mother's face, Lyarra turned to the huge black direwolf. "Stay here," she instructed, and Fenrir seemed to nod, his haunting eyes showing that he understood. Petting him briefly, she pushed open the door.
Her mother didn't spare her a glance, eyes focused on the prayer wheel that she was creating. "Mother?"
Catelyn hummed in response, only allowing her gaze to flicker to her daughter briefly as she sat down next to Brandon, taking his hand in her own.
"His fever's broken," she remarked. "That's good."
Once again, Catelyn didn't reply, simply looking at her.
"When was the last time you left this room?" Lyarra asked her.
"I have to take care of him," Catelyn finally spoke hoarsely.
"He's not going to die, mother, Maester Luwin says so, and I have seen it in my dreams, he will wake up. The most dangerous time has passed."
"What if he's wrong? What if you're wrong?" Catelyn burst out. "Bran needs me."
"You have six children, not just Brandon." Lyarra snapped as she stood suddenly, eyes blazing with anger. "Six children who all need you, and yet you have done nothing but ignore five of us as you hole yourself up in here. No one has any idea what's going on. Robb is devastated. Sansa is spending all of her time with that – that bastard Joffrey. Arya and Rickon cling to me like I am their mother and not you. And I have been left doing all the jobs that you should be doing. We're absolutely lost without you, and you don't even have the decency to act as if you care. You are our mother, too. We need you, too."
Catelyn did nothing but stare, open-mouthed, at her. Her hands had stilled in the making of her prayer wheel, clutching it so tightly that her knuckles went white. Looking back at her mother searchingly, Lyarra found nothing in her gaze; she was a shell of herself.
"Say something," Lyarra begged her, anger ebbing into sadness and tiredness. "Please, mother, anything."
But she didn't. Of course she didn't. She probably wouldn't until Bran woke up.
Sighing quietly at her silence, Lyarra pressed a kiss to Bran's forehead, brushing his hair from his face. Without sparing her own mother a glance, she fled the stuffy room, managing to slam the door behind her before tears visibly streaked down her face.
Lyarra ran through the halls with Fenrir on her heels, a hand covering her mouth as she tried to make her way back to her own chambers. A dry sob left her lips and, truthfully, she was unsure as to the true cause of her tears. Perhaps it was stress, or worry for Bran, or even the knowledge that dark days would soon be upon us and she was powerless to stop it, but either way Lyarra found herself crying one second, and in pain a second later as she collided with what felt like a brick wall. Shutting her eyes as she ricocheted backwards, fully expecting the impact of the floor, she was shocked as hands closed around her arms and caught her before she could.
"Seven Hells! What's the matter with you, girl?" King Robert Baratheon thundered, his meaty fingers gripping Lyarra's upper arms tightly as he prevented her from flying to the stone floor. At her surprised silence, he huffed. "Well? Has someone hurt you?"
"N-No, Your Grace," Lyarra sniffed, trying desperately to compose herself. How embarrassing.
Robert sighed, cursing under his breath. "Come in here," he said gruffly, leading her into his chambers, ordering out the guards. "Now, what's gotten you upset?" Robert questioned, clearly uncomfortable with her tears as they sat on the fur-lined chairs in the corner of the room.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace," she mumbled as she calmed. Lyarra's fingers found Fenrir's inky fur, and she avoided the King's strong eyes. "I think with Bran being so – well, you know how it is… I think I'm just overwhelmed. We all are."
There was silence, and Robert let out a heavy sigh. "Boy, bring me and the Lady Lyarra some wine," Robert ordered the blond boy stood in the corner of his room, who went wide eyed and fumbled, clearly not expecting it. "Are you fucking dumb? Look at this fucking idiot – another Lannister shit – he can't even pour a glass of fucking wine. Useless little cunt. Seven hells, boy, get on with it!"
Robert and Lyarra watched as the Lannister squire poured two goblets of wine, and handed it over to them. They sat quietly, and she inspected the King as he guzzled down the wine like it was water. Robert Baratheon possessed the typical Baratheon black hair and bright blue eyes, and stood at around six-and-a-half feet tall; once, she supposed, he would have been extremely handsome, but the years as King had prompted him to gain excessive amounts of weight, and given him a large gut. He red-faced from drink with dark circles underneath his haunted eyes, and was sweating through his silks. He spilt wine into his great beard, and simply wiped it off with the back of his sleeve – though he usurped the Targaryens, Robert did not look like much of a King as he sat before her.
Glancing back down to her own goblet, Lyarra took a sip. Feeling Robert's eyes resting on her heavily, she looked upwards, and her own grey eyes met his blue. It seemed as if, for a moment, Robert became the young man he had once been as he gazed at her, seeing Lyanna instead of Lyarra. But the visage was broken as she cleared her throat quietly – he didn't see me, no one ever saw me, they saw her.
"It would've been you who married my Joff, it should be you. You're of age and seem like you'd fit in down at King's Landing far better than any of your family. But you stay up North with your mother – where I know the snakes and Lannister shits can't get to you." He said suddenly, his hand gripping her knee. "As long as I breathe, no man will lay a fucking hand on you unless you allow it. I swear it," The King spoke forcefully, all of his usual characteristic drunkenness gone as he stared deeply into her eyes. The intensity of his gaze and the hand he had on her knee made Lyarra feel an odd mix of discomfort, pity and safety. Discomfort at the fact that he clearly wasn't making this promise to her, but to her deceased Aunt who she looked so much like; pity because it was so clear that he carried the guilt of Lyanna's abduction and eventual death, and was haunted by it; and, for a strange reason that she was sure she will never be able to explain logically, safety in the presence of the man that she now knew would never hurt her, if only for her resemblance to Lyanna.
Robert Baratheon, she realised, didn't want to make the same mistakes with her that he had made with Lyanna, just like her father.
"Thank you, Your Grace," Lyarra replied, placing her pale hand over his own and squeezing it gently. She couldn't think of anything else to say, but luckily a guard approached the King informing him that he had visitors. Politely excusing herself, she ignored the two giggling serving girls stood outside his chambers, the reality of his whoremongering ways returning to the forefront of her mind.
I am a she-wolf of Winterfell, and the day that I rely on Robert Baratheon for protection will be my last.
EDDARD STARK
"Father!"
Lyarra's voice, followed by footsteps, alerted Ned to his daughter's presence. Dismissing himself from his conversation with Ser Rodrik, he turned to Lyarra, greeting her with a smile as she kissed his cheek.
"Father, I need to speak to you," she muttered urgently. "It's important."
Ned frowned. "What's the matter, Lya?"
She shook her head, gesturing to the people around them, "Not here. Not where people can listen."
Ned offered her his arm and led her into the castle,
"Winter is coming, Lyarra –"
"Winter is already here, father." She replied, and her voice made him shiver. "You told me yourself; when the cold wind blows the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. You cannot leave Winterfell."
"I have to, sweet girl," said Ned.
"Then I'm not coming with you," she said determinedly. "King Robert would be happy to have me, I'm sure, but I won't leave my family, not like you."
"I don't have a choice, Lyarra." Ned tried to say, but she interrupted him.
"You have a choice. You always have a choice, and you've made yours. You're going to die in King's Landing," she spoke harshly, and Ned knew there was nothing but truth in her words. "We're all going to die. I saw it in the smoke. You're letting evil into our lives, father. The last time Starks left Winterfell it caused a war that killed thousands of innocent people, this will be no different. Worse even."
"Lyarra, what have you seen?" Ned asked her. He never asked what she saw in her dreams – he didn't like it, and wasn't as prone to believing in omens as his wife, but something about the haunted look in her eyes made him want to know. Gripping her upper arms, he forced her to look into his eyes.
"I-I can't tell you," she whispered. "If I tell you that makes it real. I can't do that. I do not see fate or changeable things, I see destiny, and I don't like it. I cannot condemn you to that. Please, father, don't go to King's Landing. Do not go where I cannot follow."
Although he wasn't an emotional man, Ned felt tears of bitter anger stinging his eyes. Damn Robert, damn him to Hell for putting me in this position. Standing, he left his daughter sat on her bed, cursing her likeness to his sister and cursing all things he could think of, including his honour.
Conflict was heavy on his mind as he stormed from the chambers, stoic and angry. I did not make this bed, and yet I'm being forced to lie in it.
JON SNOW
"You're leaving, aren't you. You've come to say goodbye." Lyarra murmured as Jon came to stand in the threshold of her room. It wasn't a question, and he did not reply, simply entering the room and closing the door behind him. She had been sat in the same spot for a while, that much was clear. "You're taking the Black. Why, Jon?" She span around, eyes filled with tears. "Why are you leaving me, leaving us? We need you here – I need you here."
Jon didn't have an answer that wouldn't upset her further. As a brother of the Night's Watch, Jon knew his bastard status would be put aside, and for the first time in his life, he would have the chance to make a name for himself, a name without the word 'bastard' attached to it.
"Don't even answer, I know why," she spat tearfully, a black fur wrapped around her shoulders. Though he had never actually discussed his reasoning with the eldest Stark girl, Jon knew that Lyarra, somehow, knew – she always did.
Jon bristled, raising his voice in frustration. "Of course you do, you know everything."
"And you know nothing, Jon Snow," Lyarra hissed, her voice as cold as the icy Northern winds.
He looked at her then, his gaze intense. Lyarra's face was stormy, though her eyes showed that she was simply upset and confused, and expressing it in the only way she knew how to. He felt his own anger dissipate in the way it always did whenever he and Lyarra argued, and saw her own face crack as silvery tears streaked down her cheeks. Lyarra's arms flung around Jon's neck suddenly, and she pulled him to her tightly.
"Lya," was all Jon said as he wrapped his own arms around her, holding her like it was the last time he ever would. He didn't know what else to say.
Lyarra pulled away and looked at him, seeming to consider what to do or say. He felt the same conflict – though Lyarra was accepted by her family and loved them dearly, she had often felt distanced from them due to her visions, and spurned when she was scolded for frightening her siblings with them. Jon was sure he would never forget the time that he had stumbled into her chambers after she had been shouted at by her parents.
Jon knocked on the door to Lyarra's chambers, hearing her sobbing faintly.
"Go away!" He heard her yell between her wails, and promptly ignored her, opening the door. The sight that greeted him was his sister laid on her bed, weeping into the furs.
She had been shouted at by her mother and father for telling Robb what she had seen in her dreams. He understood why, he had been there when she told him.
"It was you, this time, Robb. You were older and you had the head of a wolf sewed onto your own head. You were snarling and growling –"
"You horrid, horrid girl!" Lady Stark had screamed at her when Robb ran over in tears, telling his parents of what Lyarra had said. It had all happened so quickly.
"I haven't done anything wrong! It's the truth!" Lyarra protested fiercely. "I saw it in my dreams, my dreams are never wrong, mother. Father," she looked to Ned, who had stayed quiet. "Tell her, father. Please, father, I didn't mean to upset him, I was just saying what I saw."
"Go to your room." Eddard ordered coldly.
"What?" She cried. "Father –"
"Go to your room, Lyarra," he bellowed.
Everyone looked on in shock – Ned doted on Lyarra more than any of his other children, always bending to her will and giving in to her every whim, he'd never raised his voice at any of his children before, let alone Lyarra.
The girl, who was only ten namesdays old, let out a sob and shot her father a look of utter betrayal. Covering her mouth with her hand, she picked up her dark blue skirts, turned, and ran from the hall.
That had been hours ago, and her cries still echoed throughout the castle. Jon hated the sound of her tears, and decided to check on her.
"Are you okay?" He asked as he came to sit down on the bed next to her. It was a stupid question.
"What do you think?" Lyarra snapped, staring down at her hands sadly. "My own family doesn't believe me."
"I believe you," Jon told her, and her head snapped up. Her eyes were bloodshot and wide.
"Really?" She sniffled.
Jon nodded simply, "Yes."
She lunged at him then in a way similar to how she had now, flinging her arms around him. They fell asleep that night cuddled together on top of the furs of her bed.
"Don't think, just feel." Lyarra muttered suddenly, shaking him from the memory, before pressing her lips to his.
LYARRA STARK
Lyarra watched from the window as Robb and Jon embraced in the courtyard, her lips swollen with the ghosts of their exchange. It had been wrong. They both knew it. But it had felt right, and she wasn't one to have regrets. She was dressed simply a midnight blue dress, a wolf pelt wrapped around her to keep the chill out, with her obsidian hair hanging to her waist in curls. Her eyes were haunted and sad as they looked out to Winterfell.
Jon looked up suddenly from where he was saddling his horse, seeming to sense that he had eyes on him. His eyes soon found Lyarra, and she stared out at him stoically, unspoken words hanging in the air, words that would probably never be spoken.
"Sissy?" Rickon bumbled into the room, dashing over to her and coming to join her in staring from the window, wrapping his arms around her leg as her buried his face in her blue skirts.
"Rickon," Lyarra gasped, breaking their eye contact as she gripped her youngest brother's shoulders, where had he come from? "Where's Old Nan? I told you to stay with her today."
Rickon shook his head, pouting. "I missed you, I want to stay with you, you're my favourite."
"And you're mine, sweet pup," she replied, lifting him up and returning to her place as the window.
"I don't want Jon to leave." Rickon mumbled into her neck as they watched their brother do just that. "I don't want anyone to leave."
"Neither do I," answered Lyarra in a tone similar to the one her brother was using, holding him tighter to her.
"Are you going to leave me, too?" He sniffled, eyes so unguarded and wet with tears that she nearly cried. "Please, don't leave, Lya. I don't want you to go."
"No, Rickon, never," she swore. "I'll never leave you."
~8~
The walls of Winterfell were filled with the goodbyes of the Stark family as it split in half. Ned, Sansa and Arya were to travel South to King's Landing; Jon was taking the black; and Robb, Bran, Catelyn, Rickon and Lyarra were staying in Winterfell.
Arya's arms had been locked around Lyarra's neck since she had finished saying goodbye to her mother, the girl was refusing to release her eldest sister. "Come with us, Lya," she begged. "Don't leave me alone with Sansa."
Lyarra let out a laugh as she set down her sister, kneeling before her. They looked alike in a strange way – they shared the Stark long faces, grey eyes and dark hair – but it was their personalities that matched the most. She had been just like Arya as a child, unruly and wilful, needing two septas instead of one, but had learnt to curb her tongue and temper, something her sister had yet to do. Lyarra prayed at night that Arya never lost the wolf-blood that had been the undoing of their Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Brandon.
"I have to stay here, Arya. They need me more than you do, especially now that you have a needle of your own, you won't be needing me anymore," she replied with a wink.
Both she and Arya despised doing needlework, but Lyarra could at least do it well enough; oftentimes, she would make quick work of her own stitching, and then finish off Arya's for her, or would cover for her young sister to allow her to escape the clutches of Septa Mordane. That was years ago, though, Lyarra didn't do needlework with her sisters anymore, instead opting to look after Rickon once she turned ten-and-four.
"You're going to have to learn how to use it properly," Lyarra told her seriously, cupping her face in her hands. "the next time I see you, I want you to be able to show me how good you've gotten at needlework, alright?"
Arya nodded eagerly, and flung her skinny arms around her sister once more. "I'll write every day," she promised.
"You and I both know you won't, monthly or weekly shall suffice," Lyarra laughed as they pulled apart. "Stay safe, little sister. Try to stay out of trouble."
Arya sent her a mischievous grin, before bouncing off to Robb and saying her goodbyes to him. Lyarra turned to her auburn-haired sister, who was tearful as they embraced. They had never been exceedingly close – they were far too different for that – but they had never argued like Sansa did with Arya. Lyarra and Sansa were both beautiful, but polar opposites in it. Sansa was light where Lyarra was dark; all of her auburn-haired siblings were like that, though. They possessed a softness that Jon, Arya and Lyarra did not have. A softness they will all soon lose.
Sighing softly as they released each other, Lyarra felt her heart break for her younger sister. How she wished she would help her, prevent her from slipping into Joffrey's clutches, but she could not – Sansa's destiny was fixed, just like everyone's was. Their lives were a wicked game that, no matter what they did, would end up with them dead; the game of thrones took no prisoners.
"Be careful, Sansa," Lyarra whispered to her younger sister, who seemed confused. "Remember who you are in here –" she pointed to her sister's chest, where her heart was. "You are Sansa Stark of Winterfell. You are a caged bird that sings. Don't ever let anyone take that away from you."
Sansa stared at her sister as if she had grown a second head, opening her mouth to ask what she was talking about, but Lyarra spoke first. "I'll see you again, one day. We'll both be very different then. Everything will be different then."
Lyarra hugged her sister once more, who numbly returned it. Sansa wanted to ask more questions, Lyarra could tell – probably wanting to ask if I've been touched, she thought darkly. She left before Sansa could, tapping her father on the shoulder.
Ned had barely had the chance to turn before she was on him, hugging him fiercely. Her arms wrapped around his neck tightly, and she buried her face in his furs. It would be the last time she ever saw him, she knew it, and that was what made her weep. Lyarra looked at her father's face, trying desperately to engrain his face into her mind. Trying desperately to ensure that she wouldn't forget.
"I love you," she muttered into his neck, which she had wet with her tears.
"I love you, too," he gruffly mumbled in return.
"Please be careful, father," she begged. "Don't trust anyone down there, don't go digging where you shouldn't. Promise me you won't, father. Promise me, father. Promise me."
Ned's eyes seemed to glaze over with memories, and he stiffened. "I promise."
But they both knew it was a promise that he could not keep.
~8~
"Lya! Lya! Tell me a story!" Rickon begged, gripping the sleeve of her night gown, refusing to allow her to leave his bedchambers. "Please, Lya, a story!"
Lyarra sighed. "I've told you three already, I'm going to run out of stories soon enough."
"Please, Lya, one more," he pouted, clutching at her hands. "Please, I promise I'll go to sleep after this one."
Looking at her youngest brother, she smiled softly, feeling her resolve crack. "Fine," Lyarra had never been able to say no to him when he gave her that look. "Which one do you want to hear?"
Rickon's brow creased in thought for a moment as he settled into the furs of his bed, before his eyes lit up. "Little Red," he said, seeming satisfied with his choice.
"Little Red Riding-Hood?"
"Yeah, that one!" He nodded, eyes doe-like and impatient as he waited for his sister to begin telling him one of his favourite tales.
"Okay," Lyarra laughed quietly, reaching over to tuck him in better as Shaggydog and Fenrir came to lay in the bed next to them, warming them instantly. "Once upon a time there lived on the borders of a great forest a woodman and his wife, who had one little daughter; a sweet, kind child, whom everyone loved. She was the joy of her mother's heart, and to please her, the good woman made her a little scarlet cloak and hood, and the child looked so pretty in it that everybody called her Little Red Riding-Hood.
"One day her mother told her she meant to send her to her grandmother—a very old woman who lived in the heart of the wood—to take her some fresh butter and new-laid eggs and a nice cake. Little Red Riding-Hood was very pleased to be sent on this errand, for she liked to do kind things, and it was so very long since she had seen her grandmother that she had almost forgotten what she had looked like.
"The sun was shining brightly, but it was not too warm under the shade of the old trees, and Red Riding-Hood sang with glee as she gathered a great bunch of wild flowers to give to her grandmother. She sang so sweetly that a dove flew down from a tree and followed her.
"Now, it happened that a lion, a very cruel, greedy creature, heard her song also, and longed to eat her for his breakfast, but he knew Hugh, the woodman, was at work very near, with his great direwolf, and he feared they might hear Red Riding-Hood cry out if he frightened her, and then they would kill him. So, he came up to her very gently and said: 'Good day, Little Red Riding-Hood; where are you going?'"
"'To see my grandmother,' said the child, 'and take her a present from mother of eggs and butter and cake'.
"'Where does your grandmamma live?' asked the lion.
"'Quite in the middle of the wood,' she replied.
"'Oh! I think I know the house. Good day, Red Riding-Hood.' And the lion ran off as fast as he could.
Lyarra continued, "Little Red Riding-Hood was not in a hurry, and there were many things to amuse her in the wood. She ran after the white and yellow butterflies that danced before her, and sometimes she caught one, but she always let it go again, for she never liked to hurt any creature. And then there were the merry, cunning little squirrels to watch, cracking nuts on the branches of the old trees, and every now and then a rabbit would hurry away through the tall ferns, or a great bee come buzzing near her, and she would stop to watch it gathering honey from the flowers, and wild thyme. So she went on very slowly.
"By-and-by she saw Hugh, the woodman. 'Where are you going, Little Red Riding-Hood,' said he, 'all alone?'
"'I am going to my grandmamma's,' said the child. 'Good day; I must make haste now, for it grows late.'
"While Little Red Riding-Hood was at play in the wood, the great lion galloped on as fast as he could to the old woman's house. Grandmother lived all by herself, but once or twice a-day a neighbour's child came to tidy her house and get her food. Now, grandmother was very feeble, and often kept her bed; and it happened that she was in bed the day Little Red Riding-Hood went to see her. When the lion reached the cottage door he tapped.
"'Who is there?' asked the old woman.
"'Little Red Riding-Hood, granny,' said the lion, trying to speak like the child.
"'Come in, my dear,' said the old lady, who was a little deaf. "'Pull the string and the latch will come up.'"
"The lion did as she told him, went in, and you may think how frightened poor grandmother was when she saw him standing by her bed instead of Little Red Riding-Hood. Very soon the lion, who was quite hungry after his run, ate up poor grandmother. Indeed, she was not enough for his breakfast, and so he thought he would like to eat sweet Red Riding-Hood also. Therefore, he dressed himself in granny's nightcap and got into bed, and waited for the child to knock at the door. But he waited a long time. By and by Little Red Riding-Hood reached her grandmother's house, and tapped at the door.
"'Come in,' said the lion, in a squeaking voice. 'Pull the string, and the latch will come up.'
"Red Riding-Hood thought grandmother must have a cold, she spoke so hoarsely; but she went in at once, and there lay her granny, as she thought, in bed.
"'If you please, grandmamma, mother sends you some butter and eggs,' she said.
"'Come here, dear,' said the wicked wolf, 'and let me kiss you,' and Red Riding-Hood obeyed.
"But when Red Riding-Hood saw the wolf she felt frightened. She had nearly forgotten grandmother, but she did not think she had been so ugly. 'Grandmamma,' she said, 'what a great nose you have.'" Lyarra bopped Rickon on the nose.
"'All the better to smell you with, my dear,' said the wolf.
"'And, grandmamma, what large ears you have.'" She tugged his ear gently, causing him to giggle.
"'All the better to hear you with, my dear.'
"'Ah! grandmamma, and what large eyes you have!'" Lyarra looked directly into Rickon's bright eyes.
"'All the better to see you with, my dear,' said the lion, showing his teeth, for he longed to eat the child up.
"'Oh, grandmamma, and what great teeth you have!' said Red Riding-Hood.
"'All the better to gobble you up with!'" Lyarra tickled Rickon's stomach and he howled with laughter. "Jumping out of bed, he rushed at Red Riding-Hood and would have eaten her up, but just at that minute the door flew open and a great direwolf tore him down. The lion and the wolf were still fighting when Hugh, the woodman, came in and killed the wicked lion with his axe. Little Red Riding-Hood threw her arms round the woodman Hugh's neck and kissed him, and thanked him again and again.
"'Oh, you good, kind Hugh,' she said, 'how did you know the lion was here, in time to save me?'
"'Well,' said Hugh, 'when you were gone by, I remembered that a lion had been seen about the wood lately, and I thought I would just come after you and see if you were safe. When we came near grandmother's house my wolf Shaggydog sniffed and ran to the door and whined, and then he pushed it open — you had not shut it closed — and rushed in, and I followed him, and between us we have killed the lion.'
"Then Hugh took the child home, and her mother and father could not thank him enough for saving Little Red Riding-Hood –"
"Fire!" Robb rushed into the room as she finished the story, eyes wide.
"What?" Lyarra was on her feet in an instant. "A fire, in Winterfell?"
"Yes!" Her brother replied, turning to go. "You stay here with Rickon, barricade the door."
Lyarra's jaw dropped in shock. "What about Bran? Mother? Are they safe?"
"They're in his chambers. Stay here. I'll come and get you when it's been sorted."
He kissed her forehead briefly, and ran from the room.
"Lyarra, what's happening?" Rickon asked as she went to the window, seeing her home up in flames.
"I don't know, little pup," she muttered, pushing him back into bed when he tried to join her. "Stay in your bed, you'll get cold otherwise."
"Sissy –"
Rickon's words were drowned out as screams sounded through the halls, tearing through her body and going straight to Lyarra's gut. The only other woman in this end of the castle was –
"Mother," Lyarra gasped. Turning and looking to her little brother, who seemed terrified, she pressed a flurry of kisses to his face as she led him back to his bed and buried him to his neck beneath the furs. "Stay here, Rickon. Do not move. Shaggy, stay with him. Fenrir, come," The direwolves seemed to understand, and Shaggy came to stand protectively before the boy, who started to weep as Lyarra left him in the room. "I love you," she called as she shut the door behind her, locking it, feeling her heart break as she heard him crying, begging her not to leave. "I'll be back in a minute."
Running through the halls with Fenrir for what felt like the millionth time that day
She gasped at the sight before her. There was a man on the floor, his throat torn out with blood gushing from the wound, dead. Bran's direwolf was sat next to Bran, blood on his fur around his mouth. A groan of pain and a muttering of her name had her eyes darting to her mother, who was kneeling next to Bran's bed with blood all over her. Looking at the knife on the floor, it didn't take her long to figure out what happened. We've been attacked.
"It was the Lannisters, mother," Lyarra hissed as she looked down at Catelyn's hands. They were drenched in blood, and her palms were cut to the bone. Ripping off the bottom of her dress, she attempted to tie it around her mother's hands as she makeshift bandage. She felt tears of bitter rage and shock slipping down her cheeks, and raised a hand to wipe them away, leaving a streak of Catelyn's blood in its place. "They did this. I saw them. They pushed Bran. They –"
Lyarra broke into messy sobs, and Catelyn wrapped her arms around her daughter, her own cries joining the mournful sounds that slipped from Lyarra's mouth. How could something like this have happened?
CATELYN TULLY
Catelyn walked through Wintertown with her face set determinedly. She ignored everyone she stormed past as she approached the abandoned watch tower where Bran had fallen. It pained her to stand there, to stand where her poor son had had his legs along with his dreams shattered. He would never use them again, Maester Luwin had said. Bran had wanted to be a knight, he wanted to be able to ride his horse into battle. He never would now. Catelyn wondered briefly how he would feel about never being able to ride a horse – like Lyarra, and their Aunt Lyanna before them, Bran was a talented rider, he and Lyarra rode more like centuars than people – but she pushed the thought away, it hurt too much to think about.
Climbing the stairs and entering the main room of the derelict tower, Catelyn's Tully blue eyes traced the room carefully. It was overgrown with ivy. The wind blew strongly from the large window, mussing her hair slightly as she turned and went to the middle of the room.
Her eyes caught something golden suddenly, reflecting from the sunlight. Dropping to her knees, she trailed her bruised fingers over the stone floor, looking for what she had just seen. Catelyn soon found it, and lifted it before her face to allow her to get a better look. It was a long strand of blonde hair.
There was only one woman that Catelyn could think of who had long, golden hair. The Queen.
Lyarra was right, this had Lannister written all over it
~8~
"What I am about to tell you must remain between us," Catelyn said. She had called for the five people she trusted most in all of Winterfell to meet her in the Godswood, where she could be sure that there were no prying ears. Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik Cassel, Lyarra, Theon Greyjoy and Robb all listened intently to the Lady of Winterfell, who spoke gravely. "I don't think Bran fell from that tower, I think he was thrown."
The men's eyes seemed to go wide in consideration, and Lyarra stayed silent. She stayed silent because she knew that Bran had been thrown, and she knew who by, and now so did Catelyn.
"The boy had always been sure-footed before," Maester Luwin said, mainly to Ser Rodrik.
"Someone tried to kill him twice," Catelyn interrupted. "Why?" she asked imploringly. "Why murder an innocent child? Unless, he saw something he wasn't meant to see. Lyarra saw something, too, in her dreams."
It was Theon who piped up this time, "Saw what, My Lady?"
"I don't know," Catelyn trailed her eyes to Lyarra, who shook her head secretively. It was better that she kept it to herself for now, lest they start a war with treasonous words. "But I would stake my life the Lannisters are involved. We already have reasons to suspect their loyalty to the crown."
"Did you notice the dagger the killer used?" Ser Rodrik questioned, said weapon in his gloved hands. "It's too fine a weapon for such a man. The blade-" he unsheathed it, "-is Valyrian steel, the handle dragonbone. Someone gave it to him," Winterfell's Master-At-Arms concluded.
"They come into our home and try to murder my brother?" Robb simmered with rage. "If it's war they want –"
"If it comes to that, you know I'll stand behind you." Theon said to Robb, and Lyarra snapped at him suddenly.
"What, is there going to be a battle in the Godswood? Huh? Are you both touched? I pegged you as a fool, Theon Greyjoy, but I didn't think you could be so stupid, Robb."
Both boys looked offended, but Maester Luwin spoke before they could, his voice mild but stern. "Too easily words of war become acts of war," said the wise old man. "We don't know the truth yet, and we cannot rely on what Lyarra has seen. This is much too serious. Lord Stark must be told of this."
Catelyn shook her head, "I don't trust a raven to carry these words."
"I'll ride to King's Landing," her son suggested.
"No," Catelyn shot him down quickly. "There must always be a Lord and Lady Stark in Winterfell, I will go myself."
"Mother, you can't," Lyarra said quickly, Robb nodding in agreement. "We need you here –"
"I must," replied Catelyn forcefully, and Lyarra bowed her head in submission.
"I'll send Hal with a squad of guardsmen to escort you," Ser Rodrik told her.
"Too large a party attracts unwanted attention," Catelyn denied. "I don't want the Lannisters to know I'm coming."
"Let me accompany you, at least," Ser Rodrik urged. "The Kingsroad can be a dangerous place for a woman alone."
Catelyn looked at Maester Luwin, who nodded. It was decided, she and Ser Rodrik would ride for Kingslanding.
"Well, what about Bran?" Robb questioned. Lyarra came to stand beside him, resting a hand on his forearm. My two eldest are against me on this, Catelyn realised.
"I have prayed to the Seven for more than a month," Catelyn informed him, voice cracking slightly. "Bran's life is in Their hands now."
ARYA STARK
Arya hadn't meant for this to happen. She barely even knew herself how she'd gotten into this situation. It was all Joffrey's fault, she hated him. They'd barely been away from Winterfell a day, and already she wished she'd never left.
Her father stormed through the Lannister guards, all but shoving them from his path. Arya had been dragged before King Robert and Queen Cersei by Lannisters when she was found, hiding behind a tree in the high grass at the dead of night. She'd never been so scared in her life, and had never felt more relieved to see her father,
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Arya blubbered as Ned took her into his arms, cupping her grubby face as he ensured she was unharmed. There were clean streaks on her cheeks from her tears, eyes red as she cried.
"Are you hurt?" Her father asked.
"No," she sniffled.
"Oh, it's alright," Ned hugged her once more, and she buried her face into his chest. "What is the meaning of this?" He demanded furiously, releasing her as he looked to his boyhood friend. "Why was my daughter not brought to me at once?"
"How dare you speak to your King in that manner –" Queen Cersei asked coldly
"Quiet, woman," the King snapped at her, and Cersei, spurned, fell silent, glowering. Robert's attention turned to his new Hand, "Sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. But we need to get this business done quickly."
"Your girl and that butcher's boy attacked my son," Cersei spoke. "That animal of hers nearly tore his arm off."
"That's not true!" Arya burst out. "She just… bit him a little." King Robert tilted his head, and she held back her grimace, continuing. "He was hurting Mycah."
"Joff told us what happened," Cersei said. "You and that boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him."
"That's not what happened!" Arya cried angrily.
"Yes, it is!" Joffrey lied, unable to even meet anyone's eyes. "They all attacked me and she threw my sword into a river."
"Liar!"
"Shut up!" Joffrey returned insolently.
"ENOUGH!" King Robert cut over their petty arguing. "He tells me one thing, she tells me another," he gestured to the two of them. "Seven hells! What am I to make of this? Where's your other daughter, Ned?"
"In bed asleep," Ned answered.
Cersei smirked slightly. "She's not," she informed. "Sansa, come here, darling." Mutters broke out as Sansa entered the room, and her father's face displayed his shock.
"Now, child," Robert pointed to her sister. "Tell me what happened. Tell it all and tell it true. It's a great crime to lie to a King."
Sansa looked around to Ned, to the King, to Arya, then to the Queen and Joffrey. "I don't know," she said unsurely. "I don't remember. Everything happened so fast. I didn't see –"
"LIAR!" Arya shrieked, hitting her sister's back and pulling her hair. "Liar! Liar! Liar!"
"Hey, stop it! Stop it, that's enough of that!" Ned shouted, attempting to separate his daughters.
"Liar! Liar! Liar!" Arya repeated, refusing to release her grip on her squealing sister's hair.
"Stop! Arya!" Ned bellowed, prising away her grip and smacking her hands away, pushing the two girls apart.
"She's as wild as that animal of hers," Cersei scoffed, and Arya fought the urge to shrink back. "I want her punished."
"What would you have me do?" Robert asked gruffly, rhetorically. "Whip a highborn girl through the streets? Damn it, children fight. It's over."
"Joffrey will bear these scars for the rest of his life," Cersei spoke icily, but Robert was unmoved, seeming more unimpressed than anything.
"You let that little girl disarm you?" He mocked his son, looking ashamed to admit that Joffrey came from his seed. Arya hid her smirk at the look on Joffrey's face as mutters began once more. Robert looked at his friend, "Ned, see to it that your daughter is disciplined. I'll do the same with my son."
Her father nodded. "Gladly, Your Grace."
Robert stood, going to leave, when Cersei's voice stopped him. "And what of the direwolf? What of the beast that savaged your son?"
"I forgot the damned wolf," Robert sighed, turning back around.
"We found no trace of the direwolf, Your Grace." A Lannsiter guard informed.
"No? So be it." Robert looked ready to leave it at that, but Cersei was insistent.
"We have another wolf."
"As you will," King Robert said, walking past Ned.
"You can't mean it," Ned spoke quietly to his friend and King.
"A direwolfs no pet." Robert replied gruffly, beginning to leave. "Get her a dog. She'll be happier for it."
"He doesn't mean Lady, does he?" Sansa asked, but Arya knew he did. "No, no – not Lady! Lady didn't bite anyone! She's good!"
"Lady wasn't there, you leave her alone!"
"Stop them. Don't let them do it. Please, please, it wasn't Lady!"
In that moment as they pleaded for Lady's life, all Arya Stark wanted was her big sister. Lyarra would have never let something like this happen. She would have stood up for her – she would have told the King the truth, and Robert would have listened to her over anyone in the world because she looks like her aunt Lyanna. She would've called Joffrey and Sansa mean names to cheer her up, and pulled faces at their backs, maybe even dump a goblet of wine over their heads like she did to Theon once. Sansa had her 'sweet prince' Joffrey, but Arya had Lyarra and needle, and that was all she'd ever wanted.
But Lyarra wasn't here, and, for the first time in her life, Arya felt truly alone. Wrapping her skinny arms around her knees, all she could hear were Sansa's wails and Jory's soothing words, along with her own tears.
Meanwhile, outside, her father brought the blade down onto poor Lady; and, as the direwolf's final yelp sounded, somewhere, in a castle hundreds of leagues away, Bran's eyes shot open once more.
A/N: Hey guys, hope you like this chapter. Let me know what you think! Follow, favourite and review, LittlexMissxVicious X
