The Little Wolf

Meeting a Real Knight

King's Landing

Lyra wasn't fond of extravagance.

Nonetheless, it seemed the only way the Southerners knew how to live life was in the most extravagant form possible. To Lyra's dismay, she was a noble lady, therefore her attendance was expected at all events. So was her sitting like a lady, which proved more a challenge than she thought. Lyra had mutually accepted that she would just always have to wear pants under her dress as being lady-like was not her forte.

Lyra didn't care much for it. All extravagance seemed to be was to lord power over those less fortunate, or those prone to uprising, or to brag about wealth. It proved a point for the Royal family of Stag and Lion- We are in charge! Unconquerable, unmovable; that is the message the houses seemed to enforce.

 The little Outsider had figured out that power was the reason for conflict, the reason people didn't get along, the reason the poor were separated from the rich, like they had any lesser value or worth in the world. Almost like they were diseased, or, like they were Outsiders. Unwanted. Unloved. Undeserving of any equity, dignity, or respect. Lyra felt her chest knot, and felt for Lev, a tiny beetle, in her pocket, rubbing his white back for comfort.  

The newest extravagance, however, Lyra was slightly keen for. It was the Hands Tourney, celebrating her father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, becoming King Robert Baratheon's new Hand of the King. There would be knights and horses and fighting, and every opportunity to dream that in a few years perhaps, and with a masculine disguise, she could very well compete. 

She'd tucked Wolf gently into his scabbard, and had found herself a helm. Some would say she stole it, Lyra preferred "permanently borrowed". Before the tourney, Lyra sprinted around the castle, swinging a wooden sword, yelling out remarks from her imaginary battle field, and pretending to ride a horse where real knights would be riding in the coming hours. She often thought how good she was in battle-however, since all were in her mind, she frequently considered the bias of her review. As she was fighting a particularly tough mental figment, she took a blow to her arm. She fell to the ground clutching the wound, but managed to swing her wooden sword and defeat the thin air. She rose triumphantly and sent an admirable nod to her comrades before requesting the wounded be placed on horses, and the dead buried...no, burned, and their families notified. 

"You fought well", a voice sailed through the air. He had a thick accent that Lyra identified as being from "elsewhere". His hair was dark and lank and dripped down over his face, blending into his beard like a curtain. He had several wrinkles that suggested his age, but a sprightly step that maintained his youth. A sword was attached at his waist, and he wore armour, but failed to bear a sigil. The man's face erupted into a crooked smile and he threw his head back and cackled at the sky, as if he expected the sun to join in the joke, too. 

Lyra, overcome with embarrassment, shrivelled up and hoped he was a figment of her mind as well. With chin to chest, she prepared for a quick departure. The man, however, walked over, each stride matching six of Lyra's, and stood almost three times the size of her. As he approached Lyra, he pointed at nothing and asked, teasing the girl's imagination, "I'm not standing on anyone, am I?" Then, once more, he threw his head back and laughed to the sun.

Seeing Lyra's displeasure, the man stooped down and met her face, and grinned at her, and Lyra couldn't help but grin back, albeit sheepishly. 

"And what shall I call you-", the man said, "Ser..."

"Lyra"

"Ser Lyra, what a pleasure. I am Ser Kaelo."

"The pleasure is mine", Lyra giggled, gripping her dress, and feeling her face flush red.

She secured her weapons at her waist again, and removed the helmet from her head, squinting as she looked up toward the sun to find Kaelo's face. He was still wearing a cheeky grin, but his eyes danced with kindness, and his voice grew gentle, like her father's. 

"So, what made you want to become a knight...Ser?" Kaelo asked, placing his hand on the little girl's shoulder affectionately. 

"My brothers, Ser, they always fight, they..." Lyra began, but silenced herself promptly. It hit her suddenly, her brothers. She had masked the sadness, but when mentioned, it was like pouring salt on a wound. She missed her home, and the hours she'd spend with Jon. Her mother's touch, Rickon's laugh, and Robb's voice. 

And Bran. 

Bran, her middle brother who dreamed of nothing more than becoming a soldier. Bran, who was so excited at accompanying his father and sister's to King's Landing. Bran, who had awoken from his one-month sleep with a sound mind, but his legs refused to wake up. He wouldn't be able to run with her again, or pick her up to reach the top of her cupboard, or race into her room when she was scared. He would be crippled forevermore. He could lead a holdfast, but not an army on the battle field.

She thought, and suddenly she felt tears fill er eyes.

Kaelo, sensing her sudden sadness, changed the topic and drew his sword. "Have you heard the adage that the greatest blades have names?"

"Yes", Lyra answered, before drawing out her own blade, smiling subtly and saying, "This is Wolf."

Kaelo, referring to his sword, which was almost the length of Lyra, grinned and said, "This is Toothpick."

"Toothpick?!" Lyra snorted. She had never heard such a silly name, but she loved it. 

"My sister's blade is Needle", Lyra, regaining her composure, remembered of Arya's own little blade.

"You both have a talent for naming. Listen, my dear Knight, I must go and talk to the other knights, but will you be watching the Tourney?" 

"Yes, Ser. I pray the Gods give you a good win."

"I pray that, too. And I pray I never fight you on the field. You fight well". With that, he headed off, but not before cackling at the sky one final time.

Lyra watched him walk away, beaming, thinking of being a Knight alongside him.

She headed for the castle again, forgetting of the imaginary battle field that she was departing from. For now, the battle was in her head. Ser Lyra and Ser Kaelo, a force to be reckoned with.

Kaelo and Toothpick, Lyra and Wolf; how unconquerable they would be on the battle field.