The Little Wolf

Wolf

Winterfell

Departure from Winterfell was pending, and Lyra grew more anxious and reluctant to leave with each passing day. Lyra had prayed to the old Gods and the new that perhaps things would change and she wouldn't have to travel South, yet they didn't answer. Since they were yet to answer her prayers for her brother to awake from his coma, she figured her second request would go unheard for now.

With hair flowing behind her, Lyra, once more, sprinted from Winterfell to the Godswood. It would be the last time for her to practice throwing knives, and it would be the last time for her to freely play with Lev, without fear that evil eyes were watching her. King's Landing was a dangerous place for an Outsider, even if they were a noble one. 

Lyra threw her collection of knives at the tree, however, most of them were feeble and rusty and weren't efficient. Still, she persisted, and as Jon had taught she continued to practice her skill. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, preparing to launch the blade into the air as soon as she exhaled. Succeeding more than she expected, the blade sailed through the air quickly and struck the tree close to her target. 

"You're getting better" a low voice spoke behind her. She recognised the voice and spun around excitedly, beaming up at Jon. 

"I've been practising, like you said", Lyra smiled, returning the compliment. 

Jon knelt down in front of her to get to her height, and placed one hand tenderly on her shoulder.

"Close your eyes" he instructed. 

Lyra obeyed, and closed her eyes, anticipating what Jon would do. He placed an object, which was surprisingly weighty, in her small hands, and told her to open. There, resting in the palms of her hands, was the single greatest gift Lyra had ever received. 

It was a small blade, but with a specific weight designed for an effective throw. It wasn't just a regular knife, it was a throwing knife. Its steel was silver, and when it glistened Lyra thought it looked like a glimpse of the moon. The handle was a hard, woven design, intermingling royal gold with Stark grey, and the tip handle had the ornament of a proud Direwolf head. Lyra was speechless, all she could do was stare at her gift.

Jon interrupted the silence, "Lyra, this is your first weapon, your first blade. Be careful, and be wise." Lyra nodded, grinning from ear to ear. She gently put the knife back into its sheath, and then leaped up into Jon's arms, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Since this is your first blade, a mighty blade at that, it deserves a name."

Lyra though for a moment, before answering, "Wolf". 

And before Jon could question it, Lyra concluded, "Because it was given to me by one."