The Little Wolf

Victims of Her Soul

Kings Landing

Jon.

Lyra wrote his name, and tears swam up to meet her  eyes. Jon-she missed him dearly, hence the letters the two had written to one another. Jon had described the Wall, way up North, in all its blandness, and Lyra described the South, in all its bitterness.

My heart never knew loneliness until you went away. I pray Castle Black is fun and you have made lots of friends. I have been practising with Wolf, the blade you gave me, a lot. I can not wait to fight my your side one day, brother. Arya loves Needle too, only she threatens to skewer Sansa an awful lot! Sansa prefers jabbing me with her sewing needles. 

She held Wolf close to her chest as she wrote. Jon had told her to hold it close when she missed him. She very rarely didn't. At night she'd whisper his words, "Courage, Lyra", and pretend he was hugging her. She was reminded, and tears fell down her cheeks.

Lev still does not listen to me much, but Maester Leland says he will in time. He only comes when he is called, but even then that is rare. One day I will change him with my mind, I know of it. We will be strong in battle.  

Lyra reconsidered writing the last line, but eventually opted to keep it. She was nervous who would get their hands on the letter before Jon, or whether it would even find itself at Castle Black at all. Lyra had a blissful innocence; she trusted people with no concern that not everyone was of good intent, something, undoubtedly, she would lose as she aged. 

She decided, however, to write no more on her Helai. Jon was Bastard and Lyra was an Outsider, they were outcasts together; perhaps that was why they were so close, why they could understand one another. She almost felt guilty to be an outcast without Jon by her side.

I try and have courage because a knight does. Because you are. I met a knight last week called Ser Kaelo, he called me Ser Lyra, and showed me his sword named Toothpick. I saw him again today, and I showed him how I throw knives. He told me I was taught well.

Every time I hear a bird, I hear you whisper "Courage, Lyra". I miss you, Jon.

Love, your little sister,

Lyra

She rolled up the parchment and fetched her father to assist with the Stark sigil seal, and together they sent the raven off to the wall. Lyra watched as it flew off into the distance, soaring North, past Winterfell, and into the blistering cold of the Wall. 

After the raven had soared, she went in search of Maester Leland. He was seated behind a large table, he was flicking through an inordinate book fervently, muttering inaudibly. 

"May I sit with you, Maester?" she asked. The old man looked up, his serious face easing a slightly and offering a gentle smile.

"Yes you may, my child."

Lyra opened her brown leather book with a stitched owl on the front, and found a blank page of parchment. In her pocket, she reached for a lump of charcoal, which she'd nicked from the fireplace one night as she liked drawing with it for the tone it provided. She began drawing what was on her mind, what was always on her mind. The face that never left her, the face that made her refuse to look in the mirror: the monster. 

The pages of her books were filled with haunting images her Maester would never understand. One page exhibiting the empty faces of lost souls, another had rotting corpses, the corpses Lyra saw over her shoulder on occasion, another page had nothing but "Lyra" written many times; the way the wind whispered to her. Leland eyed the parchment, but no words came to him. His student continued drawing, not fussing or even noticing his concern.

A knock on the door interrupted her concentration. She looked up from her drawing, and faced the door; the knocking didn't subside. She looked at her teacher, who didn't seem bothered by the sound.

"Aren't you going to answer that, Maester?" she asked.

After a delay, and a look of absolute confusion, Leland spoke, "Answer what?"

"The door."

Leland looked between the door and his young student, puzzled. "There is nothing there."

Lyra thought, perhaps, since he was old, he was hard of hearing, but she dared not speak and insult him. Instead she rose from her chair and went to the door. A slight chill ran down her spine, welcoming dread to her gut, antagonising the butterflies in her stomach. Perhaps she didn't want to know what was behind the door, perhaps she was better for not knowing.

Nonetheless, the curiosity, as it often did, got the best of her. She began to open the creaky wooden door, holding her breathe, squinting her eyes in fear so much they were almost closed.

She opened the door to nothing, just the empty corridor, and no trace of anyone.

"Do you see anyone, my child?", her Maester asked.

Lyra just shook her head, and wallowed in confusion. She did not understand any of this. Why, of all her siblings, was she the only one that could see things and hear things that weren't there.

"I don't understand...", she began, somewhat speechless.

Leland, who had risen from his chair, lumbered over and placed his hand on her shoulder, stooping to look into her eyes. He advised, his tone soft, "One day, I promise, you will."

Lyra felt another pang of fright, but the curiosity was still present. She often made stories in her mind of who the monster was, why the dead followed her, the wind whispered to her, and now, the door knocked without a person to do so. Recently, however, the stories had become somewhat darker. They used to be friends, but now they felt more like foe. As her soul matured, and Lev aged, her thoughts only grew darker. 

Her fable was once that she was a monster and the dead were her followers. In recent weeks, the dead in the corner of her eye were no longer followers to her beastly self, rather, victims. Victims of her soul, perhaps, or of her monster. She feared for her destiny and who she would become.

 Lyra held her breathe, too nervous to draw it in for a while. "Why do I see and hear things that aren't there."  

"Just because others can't see them doesn't mean they aren't there."

"So they're real?"

Repeating the sentence he'd said earlier, he began, "One day, I promise..."

The man stooped even lower, an attempt to get closer, to conceal what he was about to say. Then, when the moment was tense, he continued:  

"...They will be".