The Little Wolf

Hatred

King's Landing

Courage, Lyra. Have faith in mercy.

She told herself, and begged the Gods. Old and New.

Let my father live, let my father live, let my father live. 

While Lyra was unsure exactly what her father had done, she knew of his innocence. He was a good man, guilty of only being too loyal. He was too good to be in King's Landing, maybe that was it. He had respected his wife and treated her with more compassion she could have fathomed from a man she was forced to marry, and had grown to love him fiercely . Together, the six children they had were his to love and protect. 

She remembered how she would always crawl in bed between her mother and father at night, when she was too scared to remain in her chamber. She remembered how though he knew of Lyra and Arya having blades, he never took them of his daughters. She remembered how he respected his children, and loved them all deeply, even though two of his daughters acted more like sons. Tears pooled her eyes - tears she thought she could no longer cry - and they began to trickle down her cheek. In that moment, she wanted to run and hug her father and never let go. Feel his warmth, the sound of his voice, the gentle look in his eye. To have him smile at her, or watch the stars with her when the sky turned dark. 

Her father was always strong, loyal, honourable - "a good sort" Maester Leland always said, and her old Maester knew everything. Yet now, he was feeble; so weak and pathetic. His eyes met Lyra's on occasion, and she could see tears of sorrow and regret wallowing in the deep grey. She knew he wished it was him who had been beaten, to be spat upon, kicked, and shamed. 

Lyra stood up taller, to make her father assume she were alright, to make his guilt subside. The truth was obvious though. Her crystal eyes were more vibrant as they were both blanketed by thick bruising. Her lip was cut, her cheek and neck, running down her arms and legs were purple with bruise, and red with dried blood. Her hair was matted from being dragged, and sticky with blood from her scalp. Her little feet had hardened from being dragged, barefoot, through the town and countless corridors of King's Landing, bleeding from yet another wound inflicted on her by Ser Deacon.

They had been tricked, and they had been beaten. Their wolf pack being torn apart by the lions. The wolves had provoked the lions, unintentionally, and now they must cop the bite. 

The new King - a hideous stag - stood over him, and spoke of how Sansa had pleaded for his life, and an opportunity to beg for a reprieve. It all seemed so fake, too merciful for the King - but perhaps he had his reasons to keep her father alive, reasons Lyra could not comprehend.

Her father had two options; face execution, being announced a traitor, but remain one with his titles and honour, or face banishment, wrongfully proclaimed as a man who was attempting an uprising against the King, stripped of all he stood for.

Neither Lyra wanted, but the latter became her new prayer. Please, father, apologise for a crime for which you were wrongfully accused. Don't leave me. Honour can be reclaimed, a life cannot.

He could be sent to the Wall, a haven for murderers, rapers or outcasts like Jon, the only thing he was allowed to keep being his life. Lyra couldn't breathe, the trepidation of her father's next words made her feel ill. 

Her father answered her plea, and reluctantly, Eddard admitted to a crime - the crime of supposedly wanting the Throne. Anyone who knew Ned well enough would know he never wanted the throne - all he wanted was Winterfell in the North, and his wife and children, who he loved dearly, to be safe. He hated the idea of coming to King's Landing, and had tried to leave. He had been tricked, and his goodness and loyalty taken advantage of.

Lyra wanted to scream, and thrash and steal Wolf, wherever it was, and get revenge. She wanted to punish the King for his lies. Yet, the silence of the King, and the voice of "mercy" by his Maester, hushed Lyra. Once more, she resumed her plea as it seemed to be working. 

Let my father live, let my father live, let my father live.

The King smirked, " Treason shall never go unpunished!"

And then, just as she entered her final plea, the Gods failed her.

The Gods died. The Gods ceased to exist and a new spot filled within Lyra.

HATE.

"BRING ME HIS HEAD!" the King roared. Lyra screamed, nothing in particular, but she howled like a wolf would to a full moon. The fear flipped in her gut and climbed up to her chest, twisting like a dagger. She could feel her heart bleed, she could feel her world collapse.

"FATHER!!!!" she screamed, she cried, she kicked, she wailed, "FATHER!!!! PLEASE, NO, HAVE MERCY!!!!!"

On his knees, Eddard was thrown, as Ser Ilyn readied the execution sword. 

She was held back by one guard as Ser Deacon grabbed her head, forcing her to watch.

"FATHER!!!!!" Lyra screamed, over and over again, until her throat was ripped raw and no more noise came out, except a hoarse whimper.

The sword swung.

A head rolled.

Her world collapsed.