The Little Wolf

Traitor

King's Landing

Nothing could have convinced her to stop running. 

Behind her were shouts and crashes, men screaming as swords were plunged into their bodies - the ground of King's Landing was blanketed by a pool of Northern blood and the corpses of her father's guards littered every hall. Some guards saw the little lady attempt to escape, and serving her father loyally, heaved their bloodied bodies to protect her, only to soon droop and die by her side.

Lyra could barely see the path in front of her through the bodies and debris, and her vision fogged with tears. During the course of her run, her poor soul must have taken a beating, as Lev had soared and stopped talking to her; or perhaps it was just occupied. Nonetheless, she was on her own - running for a reason she wasn't sure of. 

As she sprinted down the corridors, sticking to the darkness, she poked her head in each chamber to find someone, anyone, who would serve as a companion - her father, Sansa, Arya, Maester Leland, her Septa, anyone of familiarity. She gasped in sadness, the fear overwhelming her, and she began dry heaving in the corner. She shrivelled in a ball and wished her family was there. In a tiny, trembling ball of utter devastation, she She wished Jon would appear, like he did often times at Winterfell when she couldn't sleep at night. 

By her waist, she felt Wolf, her small blade. She stroked the handle softly, and wiped the tears away with the back of her dirty hand - "Courage, Lyra" she whispered to herself, before arising and dashing off again, nimble and alert.

Down another corridor she dashed, before she heard the hurried footsteps and clash of armour of Gold Cloaks, Lannister knights, down the end of the path. She swivelled and crawled out of sight, further into the darkness of the strange corridor. The corridor led her to a tunnel, which Lyra entered, suddenly realising her claustrophobia. Despite her small frame, the walls of the tunnel gripped at her, hugging her little body tightly, and she could feel creatures crawling over her legs as she shimmied herself along. She saw a light approaching and held her breath, ensuring no one could hear - as she learnt, the tunnel echoes, and she feared the slightest breath would alert a Gold Cloak of her whereabouts.

When she was sure she was alone, she dropped out of the tunnel, and sprinted like a scared rabbit to shelter, ducking behind a large wooden wheel. Peering out, she could see the wagon that was in the process of being loaded for the Stark's return to Winterfell - the content of the wagon was now strewn across the ground, several trunks opened and belongings either being looted or disposed of. A Stark direwolf flag had been torn, and one of her wolf drawings shredded, too. 

A flash of white got her attention - white followed by another flash, this time of brown. She dared not move, for now she was out of sight, and no man knew where she was, and no one, except those she trusted, knew of her being an Outsider. Maybe that's why? She thought to herself. Maybe they've figured out who I am?

"The Stark lord is a traitor!" an angry voice interrupted her train of thought, and effectively concluded her thinking - her father was the cause, but a traitor? She could not understand.

The voices hurried past with the men, their swords drawn. Following the men at a slower pace was an old man, his white hair hanging like a curtain over his face - Maester Leland, the flash of white.

"Maester!" Lyra whispered, trying to stay quiet, but her excitement for finding a trustworthy companion was hard to control. 

His eyes widened, and although no words came out, she knew he would have screamed her name if he could, but his breathe was ragged, and his eyes weepy. 

Lyra peered both ways to check if she were safe to leave her hiding spot, before sprinting out and greeting her Maester. She was unsure what the plan was - Leland had ordered her to "run", and she had done, yet what he had failed to do was give a direction. 

The tiny figure crept out from behind the wheel of the wagon, the blood of other men coating her, and she started toward the Maester, and he held his arms out, not acceptingly, but like a warning, as if he knew something was to come.

And he did know.

He knew of Lyra's destiny, and he knew that he was no longer destined to be in it, for as soon as his little student reached his outstretched arms, a spear lanced him through the chest.