Chapter Text
There’s an island in Essos.
Lys the Lovely, it's called.
Once a paradise for Valyrian dragon lords, the people who had walked with magic coursing through their blood, bending fire as if it were as easy as breathing. Lys often welcomed them, its sea mirroring the beasts they had ridden; one could, even after so many passing years, still recognise the shadows left behind of their might, marking the island.
The sun is a constant voyager in its sky, a loyal visitor, slipping through the palm trees, reflecting on the water fountains.
The Narrow Sea protects Lys; a secret kingdom beneath the never-ending summer sky. The magic of old Valyria still lingers there, a buzzing feeling, sinking into the flesh of the people who visit the island, curiosity and awe visible on their faces.
Like most of Westeros and Essos, the wealthy rule it, defining what justice is, a virtue which most often than not, cannot be found in the hearts of the nobility.
They act like the conquerors they admire so much, boasting their tales of old glories, their legacy, their blood so ancient. And there is truth to it with their eyes and hair marking them as mythical beings, above the common man. Like their ancestors, they are greedy, ready to sink their teeth into what does not belong to them.
Rarely does anything belong to conquerors, though. They are known to take what rightfully belongs to another, it is the charm of it; the satisfaction of seeing someone kneel before them, the power they hold over another person.
So the cost of freedom becomes a crucial trade there. Sometimes it is the land. Often, it is gold.
But the main one is the body.
Women of Lys are not so different from the rare fruits of the Free Cities, with their sun-kissed pale skins. An exotic look, especially amongst the Westeros travellers and merchants. Lyseni bewitch their guests, lure them into their houses with their melodic, flowy voices, igniting desires so often suppressed in the Seven Kingdoms. And every longing bleeds sweeter under the heat, merging with the wine they consume all night.
The majority of them leave, something satisfied in the curls of their mouths.
But some of the guests do not have the same luck, becoming ensnared by the Asshai people, the ones who hide themselves in the shadowed corners of the island, masked, burning a fire so high that it nearly kisses the moon, lulling their prey into their snare, preaching a story about a hero, a sword, and a prophecy. Names become forgotten, forever kept like an oath between those who worship the god R'hllor and practice blood magic, never to be spoken in human speech again.
If you wander through the narrow streets, you would notice some elite courtesans, walking and smiling, concealing daggers beneath their silks. No one is stupid enough to leave their houses without carrying something sharp in Lys. As the night falls, their dances coax the people, resembling the dances of the ancient dragons, a mythical echo through time. The language of those dragons flows in the air, like a breeze; it travels through their bodies, sinking on their silk-draped skin, on their pale hair and even paler violet eyes.
They are the beloved courtesans of the commoners and nobility alike, taking all they can get from men. Wealth, knowledge, language. Anything that makes and will make them powerful. Because they are aware that, once their face has lines, once their skin becomes less smooth, all of the illusion of power will shatter, leaving only ashes behind.
Every woman in Lys knows that their youth is only a short passage of time and a conditional currency. Not even noblewomen escape from the same fate that awaits them in the corners, hiding, patient in its waiting. The true daughters of Valyria move between arranged marriages, hiding behind their sharp minds and clever words, gaining power through their men, be it a father or a husband. They look like equals on the surface, only to be silenced when that equality doesn’t suit men. Not so unlike the women in Westeros. But at least, the women of Lys have the illusion of equality, however fragile it is.
Lys never sleeps and spares neither the foolish nor the poor.
It also hides something ugly and rotten beneath all the beauty, beneath all the fragrance.
If you have ever been to Lys, strolled through its stony streets at night, you would see why it is known as the pleasure city. Anyone who ever wandered into one of the brothels and saw children of all genders used as entertainment for those who held power, could understand its wretchedness, bare even under the dark sky, stars becoming silent witnesses.
There’s a certain power men are attracted to in that place, a power that makes their blood boil, turning desire into something sinful, a certain hunger to hurt the unwilling and innocent.
(Their sadness is a feast most fulfilling for those cruel hearts.)
Lys hides something.
A girl with short pale hair and golden skin. Traces of old Valyria linger on her face, not so unlike the rest of the islanders. A quiet girl, a ghost that resides in the house of her mother, often considered unnerving because of her pale green eyes, always watching, hiding something unreadable beneath them. Hard to look away from when captured in their gaze.
Lyra knows that she gets her eyes from her mother. Only hers are more of a pale imitation.
Unlike her mother, though, her skin is golden; a desert rose on an island surrounded by the blue-green waters. When she asked her mother about it once, about why she has the dark skin, instead of the pale skin of her people, she didn't get an answer, only an annoyed look. Lyra rarely gets answers from her mother.
Her dark skin is why glances linger a bit longer on her; a Dornish look is not uncommon in Lys but it marks her as the other.
She has a beloved courtesan for a mother and no father.
Lys does not care about her fatherlessness. But she’s pretty, unique and stands out in a place full of pale skin. This is why her otherness is dangerous; this is why her mother hides her from her companions, from the people of Lys.
It is why she disguises herself as a boy, her hood always up, never looking up from the ground when it’s daylight. Better to let them see only a shadow, a spectre. She strolls through the streets, a small thing, easily overlooked by the people who give little attention to the world around them.
She’s four, and she doesn’t know what father means.
(Father. Six letters; a simple word with an even simpler meaning. She heard that word in the streets: shouted, whispered, sometimes with a giggle, sometimes with a reprimanding groan.
Father, look, there’s a cat here, said a girl with an excited smile to the man near her. The man had a rather simple look, nothing special. Black hair flecked with some greyness. Darker skin, even darker eyes. But his smile was pretty when he smiled at the girl, protective in his stance.
The girl and the man looked exactly the same.
If a father is a simple man with two arms and two legs, why don´t I have one? She remembers thinking, confused, not understanding the meaning of absence yet.
She didn’t dare to ask her mother about it, she already knew that her question wouldn’t get an answer.)
She’s five when she learns what father means.
She also learns that she just doesn’t have one.
(Years later, these will be Lyra’s earliest memories; an unknown word, wrapped around her heart like a fist; a God with no name, no face. A prayer on her tongue at night, her wish upon a star, her birthday candles. Either a knight in shining armour or a dragon lord who whisks her away to his stone castle on his dragon.
Years later, she’ll laugh at her accuracy and then cry.)
Lyra passes through the streets in haste, colours and people blending together. It's a festival day in Lys, honouring the Goddess of Beauty.
Sweat gathers along her brows, and the humid air makes her breathing difficult. Even dressed as a boy, a few glances linger on her, she can feel their burning gaze on her face.
She accidentally makes eye contact with a man, can’t help but flinch at the look she receives, and the man smiles at that, something dark tugging his mouth. It's an ugly smile, makes her walk faster, makes her heart trip, a thump, thump sound in her ears.
She is aware that she’s lucky, as one can be lucky. Her mother may be a cold, distant figure to Lyra. Even cruel sometimes. But she taught Lyra how to defend herself, how to hold a dagger and how to harm someone, how to mean it.
First, you must understand pain, her mother has said to her softly, handing Lyra her first dagger, a dagger decorated with the gemstones of old Valyria. Pretty, she had thought, when she first felt the steel at her fingertips, too awed to suspect any harm. At that time, Lyra didn’t know that the blade was touched with poison. Then her mother continued, her voice becoming frost, in stark contrast to the scorching warmth Lyra would feel soon after. What better way to understand pain than inflicting pain on yourself?
Obeying her mother, she cut herself, only a cut in her palm, while her mother’s voice ringed in her ears, nothing too serious, sweetling.
The pain itself was tolerable at first, but as the poison joined her veins, Lyra had burned and screamed the whole night, as if she had drunk fire; wild, green, and burning. After that night, Lyra has learned how to harm someone, just like her mother wanted, but every lesson has two edges. The other edge, this time, demanded her dreams, filling them with a fire that never fades, just like that night. Burning everything that it touched, unforgiving.
When the weather is like this, suffocating, surfacing unwanted memories, Lyra wishes that she were a Northerner, only to not relive that night over and over again. Cold is something she yearns for; it is as mysterious as dragons for her.
And snow. In the books, it’s described as white rain, which is also another mystery. She has no idea what rain means, but the water of the sky sounds like the tales she has read under the moonlight.
One time, she had asked a sailor from Westeros to describe the North to her. It was one of those days when the house felt more like a prison than a home, and she just wanted to breathe.
As she was helping the sailor on the dock, as she always did when she got bored, she was content to talk with Westerosi people in their Common Tongue.
Why are you so curious about the North, lad? It's all snow and cold, even the dead don’t visit there, he said while helping her tie the knot.
She shrugged. She just liked stories, whether they be written or carried by people, coming to life when they got voiced. It was as simple as that for her.
The North and Westeros fascinated her, too. A bit too much. What would it be like to be a Northerner, to see the white rain becoming solid, and soft under her boots at the same time? What kind of witchery was that?
She wishes she could feel that, feel what snow feels like on skin, even taste it on her tongue, while she tilts her head up to the sky, as if witnessing the fall of the stars under the white night.
“Oi!”
Lyra flinches, her heart leaping. As she turns around, trying to find the voice, her eyes lock with pale, very familiar violet eyes. Letting out a huff, she shakes her head, then smacks Mae's arm.
Now it's Mae's turn to yelp and jump back. “What was that for? You just about broke my arm, you wench.”
Lyra rolls her eyes, gives a pointed look and strides toward the festival that looms over the streets. “Don’t be a baby, Mae, it was just a pinch.”
“A pinch, she says. More like a hammer!” The grumpy tone of her friend’s voice makes Lyra’s lips curl, her heart much lighter than before.
Seeing the smile on Lyra's face, Mae's irritation softens, too. She grins, a twin to Lyra´s.
Their laughter, tinged with something of childhood and freedom and joy, follows their steps, echoing off the narrow stones of Lys.
She runs through the marbled streets. It is a summer day like so many others; the sun is out in Lys, and people are happy. But people of Lys are mostly happy, as every day is a repeat of yesterday, so it is nothing out of the ordinary. The sun adorns the blue sky, with rarely a cloud in sight.
She is ten and stupid and like any other child. Excited for a new adventure. Like she always does, when she is bored, she strolls through the streets of Lys, the sound of the distant sea echoing through the narrow roads, blending with the sailors' loud shouts. Especially in moments like these, Lyra feels like a pirate, avoiding the King’s soldiers in the Stepstones, ready to sail away to some foreign lands. Even the thought of it makes her feel free.
Her footsteps are quick and light on the old stones. A woman is walking ahead of her, her silky white hair blowing in the wind, her laugh warm, captivating as the lilac silk dress she wears. Her smell catches up to Lyra, carrying something fruity.
There is a ship Lyra wants to see today, coming from Westeros, from across the Narrow Sea. She can’t help her giddiness, always so excited to talk with the people, hungry for the stories they bring. This morning she has decided to dress as a boy again and left her prayers to the temple of Yndros of the Twilight on her way. The only deity she feels a connection with, offering Lyra a mask, a shield; a boy in daylight, a girl when the night falls.
The only thing that stays the same is the loneliness she carries, its looming shadow, hugging Lyra tight.
She decided to take her book with her too, hidden beneath her clothes. It is a book about the Iron Bank, which Lyra finds extremely boring. She hopes that she can make a trade with a sailor today, finding maybe a book about Dornish and Northern tales.
She wanted stories of people, of kings and queens, of princes and princesses, of knights and maidens.
(She didn’t know that she would become one in the future. She would understand slowly that there was nothing fairytale-like about them.)
Knowledge is a fascination for her, ever since her mother taught her letters. Then the letters became words, the words became sentences, colouring Lyra’s world in the shades she didn’t even know that they existed before.
A reddish sun, shining on Dorne. The whiteness that falls over Blackswater Bay. She remembers reading a poem about the Blackswater Bay, her fingers tracing the ink-sunked pages, casting shadows over them, impatient under the lamplight, Once again a stubborn smoke has wrapped your horizons; a white darkness, growing, erasing everything under its weight, covering the alive painting with a dusty, thick veil.
Those shades blended in her mind, solidified in her imagination, and became her world.
And-
And she wants the world, wants the Dorne, the North, wants Dragonstone.
The other books followed after, often written about Gods; old gods, northern gods, the drowned gods. About Lys and other Free Cities. About the Gods who demanded blood and the throne who demanded fire. About the Dragon lords who escaped the doom of Valyria: fire and blood, perzys ānogār. About Dorne: unbowed, unbent, unbroken. (With their golden skin, dark eyes, not so dissimilar to her skin tone.)
Wants to lose herself in the desert, hot in day, cold at night, feeling the sand behind her back, under her shoes, wants to watch its grains slipping through her fingers, as if she were spellbound. Wants to wander through its wahas, those oases, rising like the forgotten kingdoms. Wants to find her way into Starfall, the castle shining purple under its starry sky. In her imagination, she becomes the Sword of the Morning Light, chosen by the Dawn itself.
Then she imagines travelling all of Dorne, Starfall to Sunspear, like a knight on a holy quest, trying to find the man who sired her. So that she might show him that she matters, a legend, a retribution. Do you feel regretful now, she will ask, her voice ringing hollow, now that I have become something worthy?
Her father has no face in her dreams, no eyes, no lips, no hair. Because Lyra does not know him, does she? He is only a shadow, forming from the darkness she hides in her cracked soul.
She can travel the world as much as she wants, but she will find no one. Yet still, she travels between the stories, the only things that she can hold in her hands, without them leaving her.
Her mother had a lot of books, most of which were gifts from the companions who visited their place. Sometimes they were foreign sailors from Tyrosh, sometimes they were the noble Lyseni men. Sometimes Westerosi merchants, sometimes Essosi traders, sometimes they were the Westerosi nobility, only different in title.
They like her mother, Lyra thinks, as she hears them from her bed, curled into herself, tucked far away from her mother's room. It’s not enough to stop her from hearing.
Her mom, giggling, is carefree in a way that she isn’t when she is near Lyra. Sometimes she doesn’t even recognise her mother’s voice, so warm, so affectionate to those men, as if they deserve her more than Lyra, with their lustful gazes, with their rude mouths. She burns with jealousy, hearing her mother´s sweet laughter from where she is lying in bed. What do they have that I do not?
They admire her, how could they not? It's so easy to admire her mother. To admire her body, the freckles on her pale skin, her glowing green eyes, her wavy golden hair. To admire her quick responses, and her dry humour.
She isn’t familiar with the woman they see. Lyra is only familiar with her distant, warning stare, following Lyra around. Only knows her mother’s voice while she recites the rules before a new companion arrives. Don’t be at home in daylight and never, ever leave your room at night.
Lyra recited these rules in different languages too many times, under her mother’s piercing gaze, so unlike the looks she gives to her men.
(But Lyra’s blood flows like a dragon; uncaring of the results when they decide they don’t like the rules. So, she leaves her room in daylight and at night, wanders between the shadowed corners of their house, listens to the laughter and the cries of the men of all ages. She learns that moans could mean either pain or pleasure.
It is so easy to love her mother as a man, Lyra thinks on those nights. Not so easy as a daughter.)
She’s nine when she learns who her father is.
It’s not intentional, not really; one moment, she’s just watching the stars on the balcony, and the next, she's in her mother's room. Lyra doesn’t even know where her mother is. She rarely knows these days.
The room is familiar and pretty. Silky fabrics hang from her mother's bed; a huge mirror is positioned across it. Lots of dresses and shoes are scattered around. Even without checking them, Lyra knows that they are expensive, brought from the other Free Cities as gifts. She wonders what the prize was this time.
She wonders when it will be her time to decide the cost.
Sighing, she touches the fabrics, feeling their silkiness at her fingertips, awed despite herself, then walks around a bit, without any purpose, and checks for anything that stands out in the room. She doesn't even know what she's looking for or why she’s even here. There’s just a familiar itch, urging her.
But there’s nothing, nothing hidden under her mother’s bed or behind the tapestry, she looked everywhere. Lyra is aware that she is a curious girl, always stubborn, always trying to fill the absence she carries.
The absence has a name, a common name really, even one of the Gods share it; father.
She has no idea why she still waits for her father to show up, why she still wants to get to know him. She knows which company her mother keeps and what sort of men those are. How their gazes linger, how hungry and soulless they look.
She must be grateful that her mother hid him from Lyra, whoever he is. But-
But yet.
She still has a right to know. He is her father, she is made by his blood, he belongs to her, quite simply, even if the knowledge has its cost.
She closes her eyes and waits. Doesn’t know what for, but she waits. She feels familiar darkness embracing her, shifting behind her closed eyelids. Still, she stays calm.
Then it comes, silent, observing.
A whisper, a command against her skin. Open.
She squeezes her eyes, her throat dry. There’s a horrible feeling inside her chest.
Opening her eyes, she is terrified of what she will see. A monster, maybe, crawled up from the shadows, taking shape, its jaw open, waiting for Lyra to open her eyes, to swallow her.
There is no monster there.
But a book. It wasn't there, she whispers, breathing rough, I know it wasn't.
She comes closer and waits, for what she has no clue. Maybe for the book to change its shape and form a creature, the ones that are whispered in the streets, with their vengeance and fire and blood.
I should run, she thinks, while reaching for the book, I should leave.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she opens the book.
And it is not a book but-
A diary.
Her mother's elegant handwriting is familiar, and it says, I learned my mysterious Westerosi prince's name today, long after he has left: Baelor Targaryen. Can you imagine? Who knew I would birth a princess, though a bastard…
She shuts the book, scrambles back and escapes from the room, from the truth whose cost she accepted long before.
She closes the curtains in her room, her heart in her mouth. Then cursing herself she opens them again, welcoming the sun beams into the small place. You are so stupid, Lyra. So stupid. Just read it already.
Sitting on her bed, she reaches for the book she has traded with a dress she stole. Her mother has lots of them. This is the first time Lyra is glad of this privilege.
The book has a simple look, a burgundy leather worn, lying unassuming. Her throat tightens, forming a lump there.
Just read it.
With trembling hands, she opens it, the linen of her bedding cool against her bare, sweaty skin, forming goosebumps.
Baelor “Breakspear” Targaryen, the book says. A knight, a lord, an heir.
Prince Baelor has the dark hair of his mother, Myriah Martell, a Dornish princess. Lyra´s hungry gaze traces the name, repeating it to swallow it, to fill her gaping stomach.
Dornish, I knew it. I just knew.
Tall, it continues, broad shouldered, dark-haired. An anomaly, some say. Abomination, others follow.
Lyra bites her cheek, her hands tightening on the pages. She doesn’t like the words, and doesn't like the following protective feeling either. This man abandoned you Lyra, she reprimands herself, how foolish are you?
The darkness she carries forms then, taking a shape; a man, tall, steady, broad-shouldered like the book says.
Is his hair as dark as night or is it more warm, she thinks, suddenly desperate to know the answer. Is his skin as golden as her? Did she steal the colour from him, the little thief that she is?
She knows that she looks like her mother. Mae, sweet Mae, not understanding the pain she caused, has said to Lyra once, a cheeky grin on her face, you know, you kind of look a lot like your mother? Same eyes, same freckles, it is kind of unnerving, really.
Lyra hates to be reminded of how they look alike. She does not even need a reminder, she sees her face everyday. Her green eyes, her lips mocking her in the mirror, her smile, but the shape of it is all her mother. One of her parents curses her with his absence, the other with her presence.
The next sentence says, he has a son, named Valarr. His firstborn. Born in 190 AC.
Lyra was born in 189 AC.
What a fucking joke, she huffs, closing the book, and hiding it under her pillow, despite herself.
“I learned who my father is.”
Her mother pauses her reading and looks up to Lyra, who is already watching her. She can only imagine how she looks, for her mother´s gaze becomes pensive, lacking its usual coldness. Even after living with her for years, Lyra can’t understand her, cannot read between the lines.
Her mother is a great actress; she performs all her roles with precision, never letting anyone know who she is. Not even her daughter, Lyra has learned.
“I see that you’ve broken rules again, snooping around where you are not wanted,” she sighs, closing her book, relaxing against the marble balcony. The sweet sound of the harp travels through the air, eerie. If Lyra didn’t know better, she could even say her mother looks weary. “Well, are you happy now? Now you know that you are truly a bastard, a royal one at that.”
The words are biting, uttered without care and Lyra feels the familiar burn in her throat. She wants to scream, cry, and make a scene. She wants to hurt, to mean it. To bite, to draw blood and bleed in return. Why must you be cruel always? What have I done to you?
She swallows instead. When the words come, they are not angry but resigned. “Does he know about me?”
One blink and the weary look disappears from her mother’s face, leaving an amused tilt of her lips in its wake. A laugh escapes her, condescending in that way she reserves for when Lyra does something particularly naive in her mother’s eyes.
Lyra bites her tongue and tastes something salty.
Eventually, her mother’s laugh dies. There's an unreadable thing in her eyes now, something bitter, maybe sad. That cannot be true, Lyra thinks, mother is not capable of feeling sad. The words that follow after are cold, and cruel, stabbing through Lyra with a pointed edge. “Of course, he doesn’t know Lyra. What do you think he would do? Accept you, be a father? How foolish are you to think that? A Westeros prince, especially him, would rather kill you with his bare hands than accept you.”
You’re wrong, Lyra wants to say, remembering the books she had read about the royal family, about him, they always say that he is kind, honourable. Sometimes they love their children; there are stories, see? You should have told him about me.
I am his, am I not? As he is mine.
She doesn’t say anything and leaves the room.
There's a man who sticks out like a sore thumb in the crowded dock.
Feeling curious, her eyes trace over his rather sombre-looking face: he has pitch-black hair with very dark grey eyes. Strong jaw, a bit of a funny nose, too. He is huge, she observes. And strong, apparently, eyeing his wide body.
Sellswords are not uncommon in Lys, nor are the foolish rich men who wear their swords as jewellery.
There is nothing foolish about this man’s sword; he carries his sword like a companion; the leather grip is worn, and his sword belt is nothing too fancy. His stance, too: straight as a stick, with an instinct to step aside respectfully when a woman closes by.
No, he is not a mere sellsword, Lyra thinks. Sellswords follow women of Lys like chickens. She eyes his cloak curiously noting the sigil she doesn't recognise. A true knight, far from home.
Found you, she smirks, her heart beating faster and wilder.
An older man walks up to the strange man. She can see the man’s sweaty neck, the strained smile on his face. He says something to the knight and then laughs loudly. But the knight doesn't return the older man’s smile, giving only a nod. The older man laughs again, pats the knight's arm, and then saunters away.
She observes the knight in silence as the ships come and go behind, casting shadows over the dock. The sea is calm, shimmering under the open sky.
“I don’t like to be followed.” The knight says, his voice carrying a northern intonation.
She has met several northerners before; every one of them is another type of crazy, she has learned in time. She knew that northerners were often considered honourable in Westeros, or at least they were known for being honourable.
She only agrees that most Westerosi are completely ignorant of matters concerning honour and men.
For a moment, Lyra feels her heart drop, caught between the urge to fight or flee. Her tiny fingers clutch the palm tree she has hidden behind. Well, not so hidden, a bitter remark, unwelcome. Then, closing her eyes, accepting that she will do something stupid, she lowers her hood. The familiar weight of her dagger hidden in her tunic encourages her.
Calmly, she shows herself, her hands sweaty.
She replies, looking down, and squeezes her trembling fingers. She won’t show weakness, she knows better. “I mean no harm, Ser.”
She hates how young her voice sounds. As if she could harm him, this man is huge.
He drawls, “Clearly.”
He doesn’t sound angry. Lyra, hopeful, risks a glance and finds his lips twitching, clearly more entertained than annoyed, but there is also a hint of curiosity in his eyes. He continues, “You speak the Common Tongue?”
Lyra nods, hesitant. Speaking the Common Tongue was not rare in Lys, since it is usually taught in places that serve the Westerosi merchants. But children her own age normally couldn't speak Common Tongue very well. Perks of being the daughter of the most beloved courtesan, she guesses.
She exhales slowly, still feeling tight. Confronting has never been her strong quality.
Trying to ground herself, she listens to the familiar sounds of the market, yelling of the shoppers, a woman singing a song about a maiden, a kerchief, and a forgotten God that turns her into a cloud. Lys, the Lovely Lys, a comfort to Lyra as well as a noose around her neck.
“Well,” he says after he realises she won’t say anything and then starts walking, “Come on then. I hope you know a place to eat good food in this fucking hellhole. I’m famished.”
Surprised, she hesitates, her lips twitching, amused by the man’s crude language. She follows him.
While she follows him, people continue to go about their lives around them; there is no role for her to play in their stories except, just maybe, being seen for a moment, forgotten in the next.
But Lys never forgets. Neither does Lyra.
(When she looks upon this memory later, she realises that she should have been with her mother. She should have woken up before her, watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, counted her eyelashes, breaths, barely visible freckles scattered like constellations across her cheeks. She should have pressed her face into her mother’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of familiar perfume, whispered, I love you, mother. I’m sorry I left. Please don’t go.
Should’ve. Would’ve. Could’ve.
Gods are not merciful after all; not for the curious, not for the brave, not for the daring. And definitely not for the Targaryens. Especially not for their bastards.)
She aids him, offering him help when he struggles with the Valyrian language. Shows him the trade points of the island, and instructs him on where to find safe passages and when. He listens to her, careful, and shields her when a man passes by, leering. I accompany nobility, he has said. Whether it was true or not, Lyra didn’t know. We are going to stay here for seven days, and he asks, albeit grudgingly, if she could offer her help for the remaining days.
Clearly, he doesn’t know Lyra and her particular thirst for danger. She nods, a bit too quickly, it seems, considering the weird look the knight gives her.
“You know a lot for a girl who can’t be older than six,” he marks gruffly while they leave the second trade point of the day. There is a tension in his jaw. He doesn’t look comfortable when he is praising someone, Lyra thinks, finding it quite entertaining. Then she realises what he just said, and her good mood sours.
“I’m ten, Ser.”
He slows down after that; there is a genuine surprise in his face that comes and goes in an instant. Then a mischievous smile arrives, a rather handsome smile, she notices. Then curses herself for noticing it. Damn those knights and their stupid smiles. Feeling ashamed and silly, she avoids his eyes. But clearly, her humiliation is not over.
“Aren’t you a bit short for your age, las?”
Her face burns even hotter, and she glares at him. He laughs harder, louder, and even his laugh sounds handsome. Damn him, she pouts.
A spitfire, you are. Should I fear for my life, little dragon, he says, ruffling her hair.
Her heart trips at the truth of it. You have no idea.
She doesn't deign to reply, but she can't ignore the warmth spreading in her chest.
He is nice, she thinks. Nicer than anyone I have ever met.
They continue to walk, a knight who is too whole and a girl who is too half.
“Take me with you, Ser, let me be your squire.”
There’s a desperation in her voice that even she can hear. The knight, Ser Brandon, slows down. There’s a surprised look there, steps faltering against her words. She can see his hesitation, whether he should consider her words a joke or a madness. He observes her face.
She makes sure her face is serious, looks into his eyes, and wants him to understand that she understands what she is signing up for. Sighing, he rubs his face, a troubled look in his eyes.
When he finally answers, it's not a cruel rejection. It is gentle. “You’re a girl, las. A young one at that. Westeros wouldn’t accept you, even if you were... Well, smarter than any boy.”
Hesitating, he pats her hair, as if apologising.
But Lyra is stubborn, and a little dragon. She doesn’t care what people will think of her. She just cares for one person that has haunted her with his absence. To finally see the face that made her. Her mother’s words echo again, but Lyra has no faith in her mother any longer. If he rejects me, then so be it, what is one more rejection in her heart, but a familiar visitor? “Then I’m not going to be a girl.”
At that, Brandon frowns, looking lost for a moment. She can see understanding dawning on him as his eyes grow wide with shock. “Are you aware of what you’re implying, girl?”
She doesn’t even hesitate, “Yes. How do you think I’m not serving in one of those pillow houses yet? Pretending to be a boy is more familiar to me than being a girl.”
Even though she’s aware that being a boy doesn’t mean safety. She knows better. Pillow houses do not care about gender. But still, sometimes boys get at least an option, to become a pirate, a sellsword. For girls, though, there is only one.
Brandon looks at her, looking grim. She knows he has grown fond of her after spending one week together. They joke around, make fun of Lyseni fashion and complain about the hot weather. She shares her fascination with the North, asks him questions about White Harbour, about New Castle, and he answers them all without complaint.
She even asked him if he ever encountered a mermaid, which made the man burst into laughter. Well, he said, still laughing, while Lyra watched him grumpily, embarrassed. I would not be here if I had encountered one, I imagine.
Apart from his annoyingness, he’s actually nice, she thinks. Lyra suspected that he would be nice before she even met him, observing him on the deck, feeling that they’re destined to meet.
Another sigh, and then he says, resigned. “I accept your wish to be my squire.”
She’s motionless for a moment, and then gratitude and relief fill her.
Before Lyra starts to thank him, he adds, his voice stern. “But you’ll do what I say when I say it. And if I hear any whining, then this is over. Understand?”
She can’t help it, she hugs him.
She puts her things into her bag; a story book about Westeros, her favourite dagger with some Valyrian gems, her boy clothing, her inks and papers and one book about Targaryens written in High Valyrian. And a multitude of other things she thinks she'll need in King's Landing.
She falters at the thought.
King’s Landing. She’s leaving Lys for King’s Landing.
She’s terrified, she realises, her fingers trembling. This is madness, I’ve finally gone mad.
But she can’t help her smile grow, can’t help her heart beat faster at the thought of what awaits her there.
Or more accurately, who.
But before that… She eyes the stack of paper lying on her desk. Sighing, she sits on her chair and takes a blank piece of paper in front of her. Holds her pen and waits, staring into the empty paper, as if the blank page will hold the answers she has.
There’s a bitterness in her heart and mind when she starts to think about her mother.
She loves her mother; she knows this.
But she doesn’t like her. Doesn’t like her care wrapped in cruelty, doesn’t like her being a stranger to her, doesn’t like that even with her being in Lyra’s life, there’s a big hole in her chest. A hunger for a kind look, a steady hand, not judging, just being present.
Lyra is aware that she'll become someone like her mother one day if she stays here. Her mother will not be there to protect her from the reality of Lys. It rarely gives its people a choice. And if they become too pretty, it devours them. If they become too poor, it kills them. There is no in-between.
And she knows that if she must choose between death and being an object of lust, she’s going to choose death.
She thinks about the leering way men look at her in the streets, even dressed as a boy. Thinks about other children, not so lucky as her, belonging to other men and women, just an entertainment for those who have the gold and right blood.
Feeling nauseous, she puts her pen down, not writing anything. For what she could write? Her mother is never interested in what Lyra wants to say. So she stands up, takes her bag, and leaves her room.
On her desk, the paper stays, still and empty.
Now she stares at the sea of bubbles the waves make from her seat on the ship; they sailed away not too long ago. Ser Brandon looked at her when she came, her bag in her trembling hands and her fear palpable on her face.
He observes her; her short, curled, pale hair, her ever-present frown on her face. Her usually pale green eyes reflect the sea now, more of a murky green than the clearness they usually are.
He looks at her golden skin and her fingers always moving and he wonders why she looks so similar. There is something older in her, something wise beyond her years.
Brandon sighs and thinks if he has made a mistake, to curse a girl so young.
But he knows Lys, and he knows what that place does to girls and boys, sometimes even younger than her.
Westeros is cruel, he’s aware. But if he makes her a good knight, it will protect her. Until then, well, he is still here to do the job. He just has to make sure that he honours his duty.
(Years later, on his deathbed, Lyra will ask him, tears running down from her cheeks, if he ever regrets meeting her, taking her with him, making her a knight. There won’t be any answer given, only soulless eyes.)