Winter Is Coming

King's Landing

The old cart's wheels bumped and rattled on the dirty road, the bubble of curious voices almost drowned out by the steady clop of hooves on gravel. Lyra Stark sat beside her sisters' septa as they approached the entrance to King's Landing, gazing up at the great stag's head mounted high upon the sun-bleached gates like a silent sentinel. The cart, a sorry replacement for their ruined wagon, jolted and threw them at every opportunity, and Lyra's knuckles had turned white from where she gripped her seat. Her father rode ahead beside his captain of the guard, his cloak torn and stained from days on the road. She glanced ruefully at her own dust-coated dress, the only nice gown she owned.

The city gates loomed before them. Surrounded by the guards of their household, the grey direwolf flapping in the southern breeze before them, Lyra and her sisters passed under the shadow of the capital. She watched her father as he rode through the narrow gates without a moment's hesitation, a cleft forming upon her forehead. Septa Mordane met her gaze as they emerged into the sunlit courtyard, Lyra's own apprehension mirrored in the woman's face. Their company drew to a halt, the dusty square ringed with palm trees such a contrast to the grey weathered stone of Winterfell. Their new prison.

Ned Stark dismounted his horse; a resident of King's Landing approached the company, dressed in formal attire, his hands firmly clasped behind his back. Lyra tensed, monitoring his every move.

"Welcome, Lord Stark," he said. She thought he sounded stiff and rigid, like a bit of leather in need of treatment. "Grand Maester Pycelle has called a meeting of the Small Council. The honour of your presence is requested."

Already? Lyra thought. Perhaps this was an attempt to put her father on uneven footing, calling a meeting barely a minute after his arrival.

Ned's eyes met hers for a second as he glanced back at his daughters.

"Get the girls settled in," he ordered. "I'll be back in time for supper. Jory, you go with them."

The captain of the guard nodded. "Yes, my Lord."

Lyra glanced back at her sisters, but they were watching Ned. Sansa's expression was stormy, Arya's bored.

"If you'd like to change into something more appropriate...?" the messenger said, looking over her father's travel-worn costume with distaste.

Her father only held his gaze and removed his riding gloves, a slight breeze blowing dust into his face. Lyra swallowed as he stepped forward, and followed the messenger into King's Landing.

Jory dismounted his horse and stepped toward the girl's cart, a servant leading the beast to leading the beast away. He helped them down from their wagon, and then they stood in the dusty courtyard, staring around at their new surroundings.

"Jory," Sansa said, curtseying. "We are in your hands."

Arya rolled her eyes. Lyra smiled inwardly. Her younger sister was determined to play the role of lady at King's Landing, and hadn't wasted any time beginning. 

Lyra gazed upwards as they passed into the palace buildings. She supposed it was a palace. The chamber they entered towered above her head in a grand circle of polished stone walls, scattered with sculptures representing kings and their houses. Light fell from high up in pools and shafts. Small secret groups of people in crisp court uniforms and grand dresses talked in hushed voices. Servants in king's livery, or Lannister red and gold, hurried past. Everything seemed full of intrigue and power, greater than them and more sophisticated. One or two of the courtiers ran brief glances over Lyra and her sisters as they strode toward an arch of black and ochre marble. The glances gave nothing away. Lyra schooled her own face to reveal nothing in return. Sansa's eyes sparkled.