The Little Wolf

Have Mercy

King's Landing
The hours bled together slowly as she was imprisoned in the cold dungeon.

From each of the cell's four corners, an iron chain protruded. A chain on each arm, a chain on each of her scrawny legs, she was treated as any sane man would treat a monster - undignified, and to do nothing but ensure it does not escape.

The chains were long enough, however, that she could roll onto her side and change position every now and then. With the iron bar across one of her wrists, she kept herself occupied by carving the names of her family into the stone floor. As she wrote each name, more tears rolled down her bruised cheek. She was so alone, now- the world, it seemed, had forgotten her, and her heart rattled away - utterly alone - in the silence of the dungeon.

Silence, she would learn to enjoy. Occasionally, the silence would be interrupted by a loud bang on the barred cage of one wall, and Ser Deacon would spit through the bars and call her a "vicious little monster". What started out as an invitation for Lyra to plea for her freedom, became a lesson. She  soon learned she ought to stay silent.

As the beatings endured, the man would yell, "there is no such thing as mercy" to her, and through her tears she would tell herself it were a lie - there was such thing as mercy. 

Lev endured, though, and each night he would appear on the ledge of a small barred window.

"With me you will stay, my Soul", Lyra would tell the Helai, pleading it to be true. An Outsider could physically live without their Helai, but it would be merely a soulless shell. Contrary to this, the Helai could live without its Master, but it would be empty, too. Not free, but binded by the sadness of losing their anchor. It was a "cruel existence" Old Nan once said under her breath. Perhaps it was; it made Lyra wonder if all the critters in the world were not merely a wild animal, but a lost Soul.

A lost Soul without a Master - that is what Lyra feared would happen.

Lev spoke to her less now, to which Lyra was unsure if it was due to her beatings, her Soul leaving her, or maybe he just didn't have much to say. Lyra regretted ever telling the voice she now craved to shut up. It's one of those things, she thought, you only really miss something until it's gone, even the things that once annoyed you. Perhaps Sansa regretted complaining about her sisters. Lyra regretted ever giving her anything to ever complain about.

"I'm sorry", the young girl whimpered, as if her sister could hear her. She wanted to hug her siblings, she wanted to see her brothers, she wanted to have her mother brush her hair, or sing her a lullaby. Or have Arya teach her to dance, or Sansa to teach her to sow. She wanted everything she once had, but never appreciated. She wanted to see the sun, feel the breeze, or read or draw beneath a tree as Bran climbed high.

The sudden realisation hit her that she would die in this cell. Her family would never know, perhaps, left to merely speculate. Perhaps her mutilated little corpse would be returned to Winterfell, dragged behind a horse with a note attached to it describing the Monster they had slain.

What once would have saddened her, now brought Lyra an odd sense of relief. "I don't care anymore" she told herself sadly.

From the ledge of the window, Lev departed. Lyra called softly, not to alert Ser Deacon, but the creature would not return. She tried to scramble to the window, but the chains caught her and tugged at her frail limbs.

"Come back!" She called this time, her voice hoarse with sorrow.

She shrivelled into the tightest ball her chains would allow, and wished for Lev. She was losing the will to live, she knew. She told herself - she told Lev - that she would live and escape, but the window was still empty. Her words could never trick her Soul.

She remained shrivelled in her ball, sobbing to herself, until a small ray of sun appeared at the base of the window, alerting her that a new day had come - she had lived to see yet another morn.

But Lyra didn't care.

It was just another day to be beaten, to be separated further and further from her Soul, from her family, from the concept of love and happiness.

She heard the loud march of Ser Deacon, and shrivelled in a ball, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, silently pleading for mercy. The man didn't say anything for a while, instead she was thrown a stale clump of bread. It was only the size of her palm and was as dry as sand, but she hadn't eaten in two days.

"Eat up, Monster", the man snarled, "I have a performance for you to watch!"

He smiled menacingly, and a spark of pure evil flickered in his eye. She was then dragged, once more, like she was scraped off the street. More people spat at her, called her "Monster", but it no longer had much effect on the poor girl. She'd started to accept it - she was a monster. Perhaps the monster in the mirror was her, perhaps the monster she spent her childhood hiding from was nothing but her reflection.

Lyra was still a believer in mercy though, she was adamant. Every beating, every whipping, she would promise herself that it still existed - maybe not at King's Landing, but back home at Winterfell. There was such thing as mercy.

The two phrases were the only Ser Deacon would speak, and had become so prominent in Lyra's mind that if she were to try and distract herself with a song her mother used to sing, she had to purposely try and think of other words besides the two phrases.

Still, what remained consistent was her nightly lullaby, the beautiful words - names - she comforted herself with in the never ending darkness:

Eddard. Catelyn. Robb. Jon. Sansa. Arya. Bran. Rickon.

The names of the family she missed so desperately had become her lullaby when no one was there to sing her one.

She was disrupted from her thoughts and found herself hauled onto the steps by the Sept of Baelor. The King was there, as was the Queen and Small Council. Encircling the stairs was a sea of people, mainly commoners, farmers and poor people who scrounged by King's Landing, hoping for the slightest sum of tokens or food. 

This is going to be a public shaming, Lyra thought. They're going to spit upon me, mock me, humiliate me, and probably kill me

Silently, she prepared for death. Lev, if you must part my body today, be free, dear Soul.

Screams of "traitor" and "bastard" and other obscenities were barked toward the dungeon. Her father's head bobbed through the crowd as he was led my guards. People threw rocks at him, and called him more names than they called her.

It was then Lyra realised, through her father committed no crime, they were here for him. The "performance" that thrilled Ser Deacon was her father's trial. A confession of a crime he didn't commit. 

And then, as dread accumulated in her gut and tightened her chest, she pleaded to the Gods who had ignored her through her torture: please have mercy!

She had never longed for mercy to exist more than in that moment.