Book 1: Prints in the Snow

Chapter XXII • These Dark Places

Lyon woke with a shroud of grogginess hanging over her, yet she was unaware at first whether it was the air or her own mind. It hurt to lift even her eyelids, let alone adjust her awkward position. It was though she'd been tossed to the ground like a rag doll, every limb felt stiff and ached.

"Lyon, thank the Gods. Are you alright?" Her eyes opened to find further darkness, yet it wasn't long before she adjusted and sought out her own father's face in the shadows.

"Father? Where are we? What happened?"

"The dungeons, I'm afraid." Another voice spoke, but this one was accompanied by torchlight the made Lyon's head throb. She only watched the man approach through her periphery and found his name upon her tongue with vagueness of emotion.

"Lord Varys. It seems we haven't been properly introduced..." she chuckled despite herself, then grimaced at the aching.

"So we haven't, but introductions can wait dear one. I see you've been punished with the same brutality you showed the Kingsguard."

"I think I got away with less." She rubbed a sore spot on her arm.

"What are you doing here, Lord Varys?"

"I brought water. You both must be thirsty." Lord Varys offered a bowl through the openings of the cell, but Ned did not take it, and Lyon remained still. "I promise you it isn't poisoned."

Ned warily retrieved the bowl, eyed it, then drank a sip, studied the taste. Deeming it safe, he offered it to Lyon. She became parched at the sight of the bowl, and she drank greedily at first but lowered the bowl after what she deemed too little and returned it to Ned. He drank only a little. Varys warned them of the dangers of growing thirsty. "Store it away," he said.

"Where are my daughters?"

"The younger one seems to have escaped the castle. Even my little birds cannot find her."

"And Sansa?" Ned asked.

"Still engaged to Joffrey."

"Weasel of a boy..." Lyon muttered.

"Cersei will keep her close. The rest of your household though, all dead, it grieves me to say. I do so hate the sight of blood."

Lyon's stomach churned at the grim news, she felt the urge to retch but forced it down. She didn't think she could live with the smell, not that the dungeons smelled of anything but piss and shit and the dead. She listened while Ned and Varys spoke, some words sticking to her addled mind, others drifting away as though she hadn't even heard them spoken.

Had he said Tyrian escaped her mother? Lyon couldn't be sure. She didn't feel any hatred toward that Lannister, at least.

It took her several moments to realize Varys' voice was gone, and so was his torchlight. She and Ned were alone.

"Well, we truly are fucked now, are we not?" Lyon offered what little humor she could, but the tone died on her tongue. Instead, it became a grim forecast. "I managed to cut a couple of them up a bit before their number's outmatched my skill."

"There must have been many," Ned said, and the teasing in his tone was not lost on her.

"Flatterer."

"How hurt are you?"

"A few bruises, and what feels like too much wine sloshing around in this skull of mine. And you?"

"I've seen better days."

"Hmm." Lyon mused. She forced her eyes to remain open and look to her father. "Everyone is dead. We truly are in the lion's den now."