The Collared Wolf

by Crippled-Canary

Chapter 4: Cold feet

Her feet beat harshly on the stone corridors as she ran, fast and sure.

Lynette was playing tag, running away from her brother Robb who was it. His hands swiped at wind behind her back and she squealed with childlike joy every time she evaded his attacks. The Stark children were playing, along with some of the stable boys and the servants. It was a great game; great fun and a great distraction from her parents' arguments.

They were increasing in volume and intensity and occurred twice as often.

Ever since Jon, her mother refused to let Papa hold her.

Ever since Jon, her mother refused to tell Papa she loved him.

Lynette knew her father was hurt, but the way he looked at Jon, was the same way he looked at her, with love in his wise grey eyes. Why was he different then, if her father loved him too?

Her mother scowled at her when she asked. Told her to go sew. Slammed the door of her solar. Lynette remembered hearing a smash.

Instead of sewing, she scampered around the castle in search of her father. He was sitting in the Godswood, sharpening Ice. It was a jolly big sword and she could never lift it. Father told her to leave swords alone with a stern glare but a pleased glint in his eyes.

"Papa?" she asked timidly and approached him. His shoulders were shaking but she didn't say anything because mother said that men didn't cry.

"Hello, my Lynette."

She took her place before him and smiled up at him. She loved her father and he loved her. She was sad when she saw him sad. Her little hands raised themselves to his face and brushed the water away. They weren't tears. Her father didn't cry.

"Is there something wrong with your eyes, Papa?"

She remembered his hearty laugh, deep and from the stomach with his cheeks pulled apart by a smile. The sight of him smiling made her smile, too. The way his eyes lit up when he was laughing made him seem younger and free, from duty and the actions of Rheagar Targaryen and the glares his wife shot him. If only his little daughter could rule the world, he mused. She would heal it, with her wolf-like courage.

"No, little wolf," he mumbled and smoothed her hair away from her forehead with a hand too rough to touch her, his little daughter. She deserved a man that would treat her like glass one day. He swore to make her an appropriate match, even if the thought of her marrying made him want to vomit and kill things.

"Papa is there something wrong with Jon?"

So innocent.

"No, little wolf," he murmured, stood up and took her small hand in his after he sheathed Ice, "he is special, just like you."

He kissed her forehead, "I love you, my little wolf."

She remembered smiling toothily up at her father and running back to Winterfell with joyous giggles dancing in the wind behind her.

Lynette sat up suddenly.

She scrambled off her bed, groped about in the darkness and lit a candle. The flame of the flint burnt her fingers and she would have dropped the candle if she wasn't so delirious. Her father was here! He was alive!

I love you, my little wolf.

Lynette flung on a dressing gown. Smiling, she ran out of the room, down the hall and out of her quarters. She passed the kitchens and laundry, the armory and the cells. She ran, down to the courtyards and over the bridges, following the voice, trying to catch it. After a while, the halls were unfamiliar, but the voice was hauntingly familiar and her longing to find it, trumped her trepidation.

She just ran.

And ran.

And ran.

I love you, my little wolf.

Lynette was laughing, gloriously happy. She was following the voice, it was so close, echoing around her and through her head. Her father was alive.

Just around the corner, she thought. Just there, around the corner, he would be waiting and would catch her in his strong arms. He'd have Arya with him, the little wild sister she loved and he would take her and Sansa away to Winterfell. He'd call her his Lynette, his wolf-child. Her father was so close.

I love you, my little wolf.

When she flew around the corner, breathless and with flushed cheeks. The blood was pounding in her veins. She was smiling so wide she feared her cheeks would split in two. It was the first time she was truly happy in King's Landing.

"Papa!"

Her voice echoed across the walls and danced over the parapets. Her vision returned to her, her limbs relaxed and obeyed her commands. A smile rested pleasantly on her mouth and she stepped forward to the little wooden bridge, expecting to see her father standing there with a smile on his face and his arms ready to shield her from the world.

She saw spikes instead.

And heads.

Her father's lifeless eyes stared back at her, bloodshot and dull, the life gone from them and the dark hair on his head matted and buzzing with maggots. It was a gruesome picture, too horrid for her to look away. The warmth in his eyes were gone, blood was splashed all over his cheekbones and his nose was broken. The bloody mess where his head was attached to his neck made her stumble.

Lynette screamed and fell to her knees.

I love you, my little wolf.

The voice was persistent now, cracked and gurgling. The head started moving, as if it were alive and the mouth twisted into a gruesome smile.

I love you, my little wolf.

Lynette started sobbing and screaming deliriously, clawing at the wood beneath her, drawing haggard marks over the wood and breaking her nails. She knelt there, as the unforgiving sun rose into the sky and cast its rays over the Keep. Lynette was wailing and crying and begging the gods to give her strength, but it never came.

The heir of Winterfell, Lynette, the daughter of a Tully and a branded traitor, dragged herself closer to the edge of the bridge. The way down was long, and she longed for the sweet release of death. The little wolf missed her father and her little sister and her mother, Winterfell and the Northern cold. She just wanted it to be over.

She didn't hear the footsteps behind her.

She was screaming when arms encircled her waist and pulled her away from the edge, roughly dragging her away from her father's head and the mocking words that were repeating themselves in her head.

Tears, snot, and blood was pouring over her face, onto her dressing gown and her sleeping slip. Her bare feet were bleeding from their rough journey – it had been a long time since she had been without shoes and she had grown soft. Her fingers were bleeding and jaggedly cut, but she didn't feel anything. All she saw was Papa, as he was, dead and without a body, mocking her with words she longed to hear him say once more but never would.

I love you, my little wolf.

Author's note:

Oh, the drama! I forgot one of those page break lines on the previous chapter... Apologies. x