The Little Wolf

Little Knight

Winterfell

"Arise, Ser Lyra, Knight of Winterfell", Lyra giggled as her imagination went into overdrive. She was all on her own, which was typical for her, but she wasn't lonely, she was free. Free to dash after Lev as he switched species interchangeably, free to lie in the grass and roll down hills and swing from trees. Free to allow her imagination to carry her on all sorts of courageous adventures. The most frequent adventure was becoming "Ser Lyra", a brave knight of Winterfell.

Lyra had an odd obsession with Knights, and her ambition was to become one. She didn't care that "Ser" was typical for men, some day, she would charge into battle atop a handsome stallion, and she would fight alongside her brothers. A knight was an honorary title, and if she had honour, and courage, and skill, what would prevent her from achieving, she thought. Power was not on her mind, however, and Lyra would gladly bend her knee to one who was worthy, but honour, much like her father, was the badge she would wear with pride. However, no matter how honourable she was, no matter how skilled she was at throwing knives or swinging a sword, sneakily stolen from the kitchen or her brother's belt, and no matter how much she aspired to be one, a lady could never be a knight. She was to trot side saddle, she was to curtsy to her superiors, and she was to 'glide', as her mother lectured, not run.

Unfortunately for Lyra, being feminine was not a skill of hers. For lack of a better words, as Lyra frequently thought, she absolutely sucked at being a lady.

While Sansa was born into it, and Arya refused to conform to it, Lyra simply failed at it. She'd stab herself with sewing needles, her knobbly little knees raced to and fro through the halls of Winterfell, her alert ears always catching her mother's voice, lecturing, "Hush, little lady. A lady doesn't run, a lady glides." Her shins were covered with scabs, not stockings, her dress muddied, and she found herself on the ground most times she tried to curtsy. However, what her mother didn't know was that behind closed doors, there was her youngest daughter-her clumsiest daughter-practising her curtsying, for no reason other than to make her parents proud.

Yet, Lyra's clumsiness would never ignore Lyra's spirit. She had more loyalty, more honour, than her father could fathom for a four year old. She had a pure heart, a sense of worth, and she wore her title as a Stark like a decorated badge. She may have had the coordination of a baby deer on a frozen lake, but she had the honour of a Stark. She was her father's daughter, through and through.

It was because of her desire to be a knight, however, that she found herself, once again, sneaking away from the magnificent castle of Winterfell into the woods. An old belt of her father's was tied around her skinny waste and several kitchen knives and a wooden sword were anchored tightly in. She was ready for yet another adventure, and, as per usual, so was Lev and her newly adopted direwolf puppy, Chief.

Lyra stood in the forest a short while later, facing a tree-but in her overactive, imaginative mind, the tree was no less than an enemy, ready for Ser Lyra to attack it. She drew a knife, aimed it at the target and threw. The knife flew through the air quickly, and struck the target accurately. She smiled to herself, before looking over for Lev and Chief's noises of approval. Once more, the little knight-to-be drew another knife. She took a deep sigh in, aimed it at the tree, and steadied herself for the throw, inhaling the calmness of her surroundings, focusing on nothing but her target and her weapon.

"And how long do you expect your enemy to stand around for?" a low voice intruded her concentration. She flinched in fright, before turning around nervously. Her older brother, Jon, was standing there. He very rarely smiled and he often had his head hung, but Lyra saw through him. He was an outcast like her, he was unique in his own way like her, and he often found himself on his own, like her.

"You scared me" Lyra said softly, before turning around, once again raising her knife to aim carefully. It was a slow process for her, but her accuracy was commendable.

"You need to work on two things, little one", Jon spoke, again breaking Lyra's concentration.

"What?"

"First, speed. I wasn't kidding, nor was I exaggerating- your enemy will not stand there and wait as you aim your weapon."

Lyra couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. Her bright smile, toothless and adorable, worked its magic and forced a smile out of her broody big brother. She nodded and silently promised to work on both speed and aim, to become better.

"Second", Jon added, "Don't flinch. I approached you, not too softly, from behind, and you were startled. A knight needs to have courage and a knight needs to have a steady hand. You can not flinch."

This caused the little girl to hang her head, chin to chest. She often thought about everything positive that made her a knight, yet she often failed to address what wouldn't make her one. Jon squatted beside her petite figure, placed his hand on her shoulder, and looked into her eyes.

"Stand up. Stand tall. Stand proud." Lyra did so, puffing her little chest out proudly. Jon smiled tenderly at her, once more. He then drew two longswords from his belt, causing Lyra to flinch once more.

"Close your eyes" he said authoritatively, "When I bang my swords together, when you hear that noise, I want you to open your eyes and throw your knife. Okay, little one?"

Lyra nodded, chest still puffed out, knife in hand. Slowly, she closed her eyes and waited for the noise. The wait was agonising, the anticipation close to unbearable waiting to hear the noise of the swords clashing together.

Finally, though, the noise was heard. Lyra opened her eyes, aimed and threw the knife. It hit the tree, a while away from her target, but she still hit the tree. Lyra smiled and spun around to confront Jon's frown.

"I did it, I didn't flinch and I hit the tree!"

"But your speed was poor. What did I tell you about the need for haste? Remember, you need to throw fast. Accuracy will come later."

Once more, Lyra reset-eyes closed, knife in hand, anticipating the noise to alert her to open her eyes and throw.

This time, when she heard the bang of the swords colliding, she opened her eyes and threw immediately. Her speed was admirable, her accuracy poor. The knife whizzed right passed the tree, deep into the forest. Chief and Lev immediately took of in search of it, Lev transforming from a small white bug, to a magnificent owl, racing her black and white patched direwolf to retrieve the weapon.

Jon pushed his swords back into his belt, before saying, "Third lesson for today. Practise. A knight never gives up on his-or her-skill."

Lyra nodded, before setting off to collect her knives. She turned around to hear Jon say, "Most knights fight with swords, not throw knives. One day, I expect to see you do both."

Lyra beamed her effervescent grin, and imagined herself slaying her enemy.

One day, she thought, one day I will make it. Then she turned to her big brother, one of her best friends, and said, "One day we will fight side by side."

With this, she raced to Jon, the only man who ever came close to understanding her, and jumped into his arms in a tight bear hug.

"One day", he said with a smile, before kissing her on the head and heading back for Winterfell.