The Little Wolf

Fleeting Moments

King's Landing

Dreams were infrequent for Lyra. She only had nightmares.

This night however, nearing what must have been two months since her father's death, her mind allowed her a gentle release. It was less of a dream, rather a memory, but Lyra welcomed it, regardless, thankful it wasn't a nightmare. The dreams gave her wings to fly, to escape the nightmare of her reality even if just momentarily. She flew on her dreams like a bird - like Lev - back to where she was loved. 

And when she wasn't having a nightmare, she imagined them, she hoped to dream of them. All those who were once at Winterfell, all those who had left her. In the back of her mind the lullaby repeated, the lullaby of her family, and she felt, in those fleeting moments, like she never left home. That was all the dreams and memories were though; fleeting.

Or maybe she wasn't dreaming, maybe she was dying. 

She hadn't had water in over two days, and she was desperate for even the slightest of drops, yet, ironically, the lack of water had left her so weak she would be unable to reach for it, even if it was within arms reach. There was a tray of food and a pitcher of water just outside the dungeon - Lyra could see - but it was merely there to tempt Lyra as she could not reach it, and to reflect Ser Deacon's cruelty and hatred of her. He had stopped beating her in the last couple of days. Her lack of screaming now, as she was so used to the pain, angered him majorly, and his new hobby was watching her die of thirst. 

Her lips were cracked, her skin lost of any turgor it once had, and her muscles cramped and would occasionally spasm, all from the effects of her severe dehydration. Her blue eyes, which once shone effervescently, were so sunken and weak the odd fly would dance around her face and touch her eyes and she would not even blink. 

The shackles on her wrists and ankles were so heavy on her thin wrists that they weighed her down like an anchor. If she had any strength left, she would most likely be able to squeeze her wrists out of the manacles, as they were now so thin. 

With her one relatively strong finger, she stroked the carved names of her family each night on the stone floor, she stroked the name of her direwolf who was imprisoned like her, the name of Kaelo, her Maester, even some maids, guards, Septa's and Septon's in a desperate bid to force the monster out of her mind, and to keep Lev anchored to the world. 

A whistling disrupted her memories. In a ball she shrivelled, the same fear creeping back into her, yet she knew that Ser Deacon was not the kind to whistle a tune. In fact, the tune reminded her of one she had heard at Winterfell. It wasn't until after the King Robert's arrival at her home, nearly one year ago, that she heard the tune for the first time.

The whistled tune turned to another sound, another sound in which she had all but forgotten, but deep down remembered. She heard a gasp - a gasp of shock, and devastation. The voice was that of a man, a man she once knew, a man she once was friends with. His presence would once offer her comfort, maybe even just a month ago, but now it frightened her. She didn't like people out of sight, approaching from behind. She simply could not trust anyone- that had died with her father.

She heard the voice whisper in a disturbed tone, "Lyra", and her heart jumped up into her throat. She had not heard that name in many months; it was no longer her name, it was just a word. Yet, she recognised it and remembered that she was once called such a word- before she was deemed "monster" by all. 

It was one of the first friends she'd ever made, outside of her family and her vivid imagination. It was the imp, Tyrion Lannister. The thought of the lion of his sigil made her skin crawl, but deep down there were memories of him clawing to the surface, clawing to be let out, pleading to be trusted. She remembered he was a good man. A good man from a bad family. 

Almost as quickly as he came and stopped by her motionless little body, he departed again. Maybe he had been traumatised seeing the battered remains of the cheerful and sweet little girl he had met at Winterfell, perhaps he was scared the beast who harmed her would return for him, perhaps he wanted to get help. Perhaps.

  It took all her concentration to open her eyes, and when she did, her head was cradled by the same hands who once shook hers upon their meeting in Winterfell. Another man was there, which made her want to scream and escape, but she was unable to. The man was small and timid, and approached her with uncertainty, before squatting by her side holding a pitcher of water. Tyrion held her head gently, and the timid man poured some water in her mouth, allowed her to swallow, then proceeded to give her more water.

It tasted so good. She didn't even have to swallow, it just slipped down her throat and soothed her pain and discomfort. The dryness of her mouth became saturated with the cool water, and the cold of her heart was warmed for the gentle touch of the imp and the man he named "Pod". 

Tyrion said a soft apology to her, and some more incomprehensible words, before placing her head back of the ground and scurrying off, Pod in tow, before Ser Deacon could catch them. 

While sadness filled her once more as she was left on her own, she was able to conquer the monster that had clawed into her mind, even if just briefly. She was reminded of the good of some people, and reminded herself on an important lessen:

There was such thing as mercy.