The Little Wolf

A Wolf at Heart

King's Landing

"There is no such thing as mercy! There is no such thing as mercy! There is no such thing as mercy!"

The brainwashing endured, and the beatings increased. Lyra was bloodied more now, her body frail and her hair matted. Food was scarce, as was water, and her skin had lost its turgor and normal colour. Her skin was dry and barely stretched over the entirety of her frail little body.

The moon had risen a number of times since her father's death, and Lyra knew it had been over a month. Eddard's dry blood still blanketed her little body, but her own was more prominent. 

Lyra screamed less now at the beatings. It still hurt, it always hurt, but she was developing a certain strength against it. Unfortunately, Ser Deacon was so sadistic, the lack of screams annoyed him greatly, and he needed to find new ways to break the little girl. 

One night, as Lyra lay prone, weak and battered, Ser Deacon came in, ready to do one final number on her for the evening. This particular night, however, he didn't have his typical axe handle. No, now he held naught but a candle. Crouching down next to his victim, he poured the hot wax down the front of her body.

Lyra screamed, and yelped and thrashed, but there was nothing she could do to stop the villainous act. She wished that night, for the first time ever, that she had never been born. What was she born for? Torture. Eradication of her Soul that did nothing wrong.

The brainwashing worked, though. If you tell someone, particularly a child, something so many times, they will eventually believe it. And Lyra was beginning to believe the cruelty.

Vicious little monster. Vicious little monster. Vicious little monster. 

It rattled around in her mind, and became engraved there - stuck like the memory of her father losing his head. "Vicious little monster" she would occasionally find herself whimpering during her torture, much to Ser Deacon's delight.

The memory of her father's kindness remained strong, though. When Lyra felt herself slip away, when she could no longer feel Lev close by, she would think of her father and the lessons he would teach. And, showing true strength, she would combat the merciless thoughts Ser Deacon tried to plant like a seed in her innocent mind with thoughts of her old life, her old morals.

There IS such thing as mercy. There IS such thing as mercy. There IS such thing as mercy.

It was in moments like that when Lyra knew she was still Lyra Stark of Winterfell. She would briefly become aware that she was not a monster, and was merely being brainwashed to think such thoughts. She was Lyra Stark of Winterfell. Daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark. She was to be strong enough to withstand the storm, as her father often told her, because she was the storm. She was a wolf. The little wolf. Her father's wolf. And she had the strength of one.

Out of the corner of her eye a speck of white flickered. It was only small, and quite feeble, but present none the less. The only colour in the gloom of her dungeon.

She lifted her head, and uncoiled herself from her ball, untwisting herself from her chains. She tried to move her head to look at the speck, and was greeted with a lost feeling of warmth.

Her Soul had not abandoned her. Lev, an ashen moth, fluttered in the corner of the dungeon.

Lev, come to me.

The moth didn't come to his master, but Lyra knew he could recognise the tone. Her Soul had not left her. Her Soul was still alive, and had not yet escaped. Lyra thought back to that terrifying night when she saw the Monster in the mirror, and her Soul escaped briefly. She remembered how, despite her world being plunged into darkness, the one light of her dark world was Lev, a beautiful white butterfly, brightening the shadows of her reality. She remembered soaring on the breeze, she remembered the world slip away from her - all she cared about was following her Soul that night, all she cared about was being free.

Now, many moons later, she was wishing for her Soul to be caged with her. She had once wanted to be Lev, be free, but now she wanted Lev to be trapped with her. 

Trapped, but together.

Perhaps it was selfish. Lev could be free, but it would be heart-wrenching for her. Or, perhaps, she was lonely. She was becoming detached and strong against the brutality inflicted on her, her heart was darkening  and hollowing with each beating, each whipping, each brainwash, each burning. She believed she was a monster more each time Ser Deacon yelled it at her. 

Mercy was dwindling, too. It flickered like candle in a storm, but it was still burning. 

Yet, inside -perhaps deep down - she was still the same scared little girl, who wanted her father back. Who wanted to be back home. To play with her siblings. To feel Jon hug her and call her his "best girl", to be Ser Lyra with Kaelo and to teach Chief tricks. She was a wolf at heart - that she would never, ever, forget. 

Maybe that's what Maester Leland had meant by his last words "your Soul is one thing, your heart is another". Lev was her Soul, for sure, maybe she was to remember that her heart was that of a wolf, that of a Stark. Maybe this was her destiny - to be beaten out of herself, and Maester Leland was trying to prepare her for inevitability. 

Surely not. A destiny Maester Leland was "proud" to be a part of couldn't be that of a little girl being caged and beaten. 

Lyra was now on her back, her arms and legs chained to four different corners. Sadness caught in her throat, and tears dribbled down the side of her face. A little moth feebly fluttered over and perched on her chest. Lev. Her beautiful companion, her friend, her Soul. 

The moth rested on her chest until Lyra's sobs sniffled to nothing, and then he did what looked like a bow. Then he departed, flying through the small, barred window of the dark dungeon.

"Don't leave me, my Soul", Lyra Stark started to snivel.

"Never", her Soul whispered back.