Lyra knew the smell of blood, the sight of carnage. She had hawked as a girl, and Harwin always loved to hunt. He had taught her to dress and prepare game when they still lived at Harrenhal as children—she had never shied away from the innards or the iron scent that coated her hands afterwards. Maybe it was the years at court that had made her soft. Years of being ushered away from the more unsightly parts had destroyed her nerve for it. For blood. For flesh rent and eyes glassy.

It had taken another two days of marching to reach Duskendale. The town hadn't sworn for the false king, and Cole sought their submission and their numbers. The battle didn't take long—the port town wasn't forewarned of the attack, and found their primary defenses breached before anyone even had the chance to raise the alarm.

Lyra had waited in the tree cover with the baggage train while the men waged their war. It wasn't until the sound of clashing metal and shouts faded that she and the others were able to creep out and look upon the destruction. The air smelled of iron and burning wood; she threw her arm over her nose.The sand and gravel along the bay were soaked through with blood, so much so that the shallows were tinged red when waves lapped the shore.

The morning was cloudy and wet—they had begun the battle well into the hour of the nightingale, and finished just as the sun rose over the bay. Part of Lyra wished it was still nighttime. Then, at least, she wouldn't be able to see all the bodies. These were the bodies of men whose only crime was an oath sworn more than fifteen years before. Loyalty like theirs should be rewarded with honor, with respect. Not with blood.

Her nerves were well-frayed by the time she made her way through Duskendale's gates. The town was a sad sight—the boats outside in the harbor were smoking, and even here in the streets, men lay dead. Men who she assumed had refused to surrender to Aegon even when their Lord Darklyn had been slain. She couldn't help but think of how similar her fate would be if the army around her learned of her true feelings.

She looked around in search of Edrick. He had disappeared under the pretense of preparing the way for her, just before she made her way out of the forest when the battle ceased. His convenient absences still roused her suspicion, but they were also beginning to flat-out annoy her. If he was going to pretend he answered to her, he might as well make himself available to do so.

It wasn't until the sun appeared fully over the town's tallest buildings, the morning wetness burned off the cobbled streets, that her servant boy reappeared. He was breathing heavily, his hair mussed and his brown tunic bagging and wrinkling around his arms.

"My lady!" he said, throwing himself into a bow when he saw her.

"Where have you been?"

Her tone was sharper than she had intended; he flinched slightly as he straightened.

"My apologies, Lady Lyra. I was with the other squires—I have news."

She faltered. "News?"

"We no longer make for Harrenhal. Ser Criston intends to continue along the coast."

"To what end?"

He shrugged. "I don't believe the others know either. Most were only alerted an hour or so ago."

The ground turned beneath her feet. What had caused Cole to change his mind? Had something come to light about her true loyalty? Would she be summoned soon for a swift execution?

"Have you had any word from Larys?"

Edrick furrowed his brow. "No, m'lady. I would think his lordship would write to you, being his sister."

"Yes," she said with a bitter laugh, "one would think."

Duskendale burned around her, but all she could worry about was herself. She was panicked; Edrick's news had unnerved her almost as much as the bodies had. She needed more, more information, reassurance that this change of course had nothing to do with her.

Unfortunately, there was only one other soldier she could think of to ask for information. She was able to spot his ruddy hair near the Dun Fort, surrounded by other Hightower knights as he usually was.

Gwayne Hightower had come to her for answers, days ago in Rosby when they first met. She hoped he would be willing to provide when she went to him for the same.

Her raw nerves caused her to forget a few ounces of social pretense when he turned to face her. She interrupted him mid-bow, as he spoke a "my lady" in greeting.

"Our course has been diverted?"

There was a strange expression between surprise and amusement on his face as he stepped closer to address her.

"Correct, my lady. Ser Criston will be leading the van northeast."

"Why?" She rasped, exasperated. "Harrenhal was to be our destination."

"It was not my choice to make, I assure you. I suppose our... brave Lord Commander wishes to gather more forces along the coast before trudging us through the Riverlands."

"The men here are not enough? You seemed to take Duskendale without any grave losses."

"We're quick, as we are now, and quiet. But some argue more strength will be needed to stand against those who muster in the Riverlands." His expression soured. "What with Daemon Targaryen and his recent conquest of your family's castle."

"Daemon Targaryen has taken Harrenhal?"

"Yes. He seized it a few days ago, if our intelligence is correct."

Her heart beat hard against her ribs, a mix of relief and new fear washing over her. If the Blacks had Harrenhal, her family—those who had remained loyal to Rhaenyra—would be safe, at least for now. But her own position had never felt more precarious. Here she was, with Criston Cole's army, traveling further from her family's hold. If they discovered where her true loyalties lay...

"I suppose it was a wise decision to delay," she said finally. She hoped he would interpret the tightness in her tone as coolness. "The rogue prince is not known for restraint."

"No," Gwayne agreed, his gaze appraising. "And not a man to underestimate, as the Lord Commander well knows. That, at least, is something we agree on."

She didn't trust herself to say more, so she pressed her lips together and nodded.

"You were hoping we'd have a more swift journey?" he prompted.

She looked down at her fidgeting hands, willing herself to still before looking back at him with a tight smile. "Were you not? My rear aches and my stomach growls for more than dried meat and soup."

"My lady craves luxury."

There was something about the way the words rolled off his tongue that caught her off guard. She recognized it a second before a wry smirk spread across his lips—he was teasing her. She bristled.

"Thank you for indulging my curiosity, Ser. I'll take my leave."

His mouth fell open in protest as his friends around him snickered, but by the time he stammered out an apology she was halfway back down the street.

❦

Lyra found herself wandering. Most of Cole's men had found somewhere to—well, she wasn't entirely sure what they were getting up to, be it sleeping or eating or stealing or otherwise desecrating the port town. House Darklyn's hulking Dun Fort and the similarly sized Seven Swords Inn seemed to be the most popular spots, so she resolved to stay away from them.

Edrick had managed to lose her again. She could probably have found him rather easily by simply asking another squire where he could be, but she didn't want to. Lyra found she had been grasped by a strange apathy since learning about their reroute. Or maybe apathy was the wrong word—was it resignation? Like she was caught in an unforgiving current just a little too far out at sea. She was drowning, she was tired, and she was powerless.

Ahead of her, a raven picked at the body of a man in yellow and red. One of Darklyn's men, of course. She flinched as the bird picked into his cheek and pulled out a stringy bit of sinew. She half-expected the corpse to bleed—so little time had passed since his murder that she could still see some pink at the edges of his face. Were it not for the pool of blood that he lay in, she might have expected him to wave the raven off of him and stand up.

She took a step closer, and the raven looked up at the scrape of her feet. It looked at her for a moment before flapping its wings once, twice, and lifting into the air. With one morose squawk, it soared over the town walls and disappeared from view. She wished she could do the same.

A commotion shook her out of her ruminations—a door slamming, the clatter of metal, and a woman's yelp. She hadn't seen or heard other people in a while. It reminded her she wasn't alone in a city of the dead. Rounding a corner into a wide alleyway, she saw a woman, a little younger than Lyra with long flaxen hair, trying to pull her arm away from a man who donned the green and gold of the bastardized Targaryen sigil.

The woman's gaze landed on Lyra, which caused the man—boy, really—to whirl around to face her. He seemed barely older than Edrick, with ill-fitted padded armor that bulged and wrinkled oddly as he moved. He looked ridiculous—Lyra had to stifle a laugh.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, already defensive.

Lyra clicked her tongue. "My lady, boy. I could ask you the same question—doesn't your knight need his armor polished?"

The boy bristled, his grip tightening on the girl's arm as he straightened his posture, as if that would make him appear more formidable. "My duties are my own concern."

Lyra raised a brow, folding her hands primly in front of her. "And yet here you are, accosting a helpless girl in an alleyway—loudly, I might add—while your comrades are trying to rest after a long battle." She pouted sarcastically. "You've made it everyone's concern. Now, if you'd like me to fetch one of the other knights to sort this out, I'd be happy to—"

"No!" he barked, the color draining from his face. He let go of the girl so quickly she stumbled back a step, rubbing at her wrist. "No, my lady. That's not necessary."

Lyra smiled, relieved he had fallen for her bluff. "Wonderful. Goodbye."

The boy lingered a moment longer, scowling, but he knew he had lost. With a grunt, he turned on his heel and stalked away, muttering something under his breath. She waited until he disappeared around the corner before she turned to the girl, who now clutched her reddening wrist to her chest.

"Are you alright?"

Miraculously quickly, she collected herself; smoothing the front of her frock and flashing Lyra a demure smile and a curtsey. "Yes, my lady. Thank you."

"What happened?"

The flaxen-haired girl bent and picked up a large rucksack that had fallen at her feet. "I was gathering the last of my husband's... my late husband's belongings," she explained, gesturing at the lumpy pack. "That boy decided he had more of a right to what I carried than I did, so he tried to take them from me. And would have tried to take other things, I'd wager, had you not come."

"An act of cowardice on his part. I'm sorry about your husband."

The woman bristled. "I don't need your apology. Yours are the men who took him from me."

Lyra felt her stomach churn at being lumped with the Greens. "They... are not my men."

So few words, yet it was the most honest she had been in days. Her chest felt like it would split open with the desire to speak more.

"You travel with them. You command them, command the boy like you've earned your place amongst them. Why deny it?"

Lyra stepped closer, her tone hushed. "Because to be one of them means to accept Aegon as king, which I cannot do. I travel with them so that I can be reunited with my family in the Riverlands."

"Odd means of travel."

"If I had a choice, I would be miles away from them."

The woman looked her up and down. After a moment, her shoulders slumped. "Follow me."

Lyra trailed behind the woman, who she learned was named Sera Farrin, through winding streets that she had completely overlooked when she had wandered earlier in the day. Sera only gave her one word as an explanation for where they were going—escape. It was good enough for Lyra.

The sun was high overhead when they made it to their destination on the northwestern edge of the walled port town. Plumes of smoke rose up in the east, the remnants of the harbor still smoldering in midday. Sera glanced around furtively before knocking once on the thick door of a small, dark stone house with a steeply pitched roof. Lyra watched her count silently to five before knocking twice more. Three seconds passed, and the door swung open. A woman who looked like Sera but much older, flaxen hair laced with grey, waved her in but looked suspiciously at Lyra.

"She's alright, mum."

There were others inside the small building—all women, all carrying something with them. Lyra counted about six total, seven including her. Some clutched rucksacks like Sera's, some held just enough food for a day or so, and one even cradled an infant who was, fortunately, fast asleep.

"Refugees," Lyra muttered.

"Why on earth would you pick up another stray?" Sera's mother was hissing at her daughter in the kitchen, just barely out of earshot of the rest of the women. "We're in enough danger as it is!"

"She's been travelling with them, mum, she can help us make it out—"

"She's one of them!?"

Sera's mother said it loud enough so all eyes in the room, which seemed to be shrinking smaller and smaller, were immediately trained on Lyra. She grimaced before darting into the kitchen to plead her case.

"I want you out of my house."

"Please—"

"Mum, she saved my life!" Only that gave her pause. "One of the soldiers grabbed me when I was getting my things, but she made him leave me alone."

"I want to get out too," Lyra said firmly. "And I can help. I know where the army is headed next."

"So do we," Sera's mother argued.

"I don't believe you," Lyra snapped. "And I think you'll agree that we don't have time to argue. Criston Cole is going to lead his army northeast to Rook's Rest, so it'd be stupid to march the same path. Rosby and Stokeworth have already fallen for Aegon and would arrest us as traitors if we fled southwest. Our only hope is—"

"North to Maidenpool?" Sera asked. Lyra nodded in affirmation. "See? I told you she's on our side."

Sera's mother grimaced, holding out a weathered right hand, which Lyra shook. "I stand corrected, it seems. Caryss."

All of these women, Sera explained as they made their final preparations, were the smallest of the smallfolk and held no hope of a life worth living in Duskendale since their husbands or fathers or brothers had been slain by Cole and his men. Most saw no future for themselves in a sacked town baptized in the blood of their kin. Better to take their chances in Maidenpool than to remain in Duskendale without protection, income, or place in the usurper's new order.

"Melia," Sera gestured to the woman who cradled her baby, "is the one who really came up with the idea. Her family were all fishermen—they know all the secret exits out of the city."

"We have to move," Caryss interrupted, prompting the women to gather their things. She gestured to Melia, taking her baby to rest it against her shoulder. "You checked it's still accessible, yes?"

Melia nodded before gesturing for the others to follow her. One by one, they filed out of the dark little house onto the street, which was mercifully still empty. Lyra judged that it was two or three hours after noon, which she hoped meant that most of the army had finally settled down to rest.

Indeed, they met no one as they crept through the streets like mice in the dead of night. There was no chance Lyra would have had a chance alone—like Sera earlier, they knew less trampled streets and obscured alleyways to pass through so as not to make a scene. Still, Lyra felt like her heartbeat alone was liable to expose them all, that her steps were too clumsy against the worn cobblestones.

She steeled herself. She would not be the reason these women were caught.

It wasn't long before they made it to Melia's exit—a crumbling section of wall almost entirely hidden by a mass of green vines and shrubbery.

"They try to close this up every summer, when the plants wither and you can see the opening more clearly. But when the rains come it just crumbles again."

Caryss stepped forward, handing Melia back her baby before sweeping aside the vine coverings. She gestured for the others to walk through, checking over her shoulder every few seconds for signs of pursuers. They were near the very north of town—if Lyra wasn't mistaken, just a few streets over from Dun Fort. She shook herself before following Sera through the opening. They wouldn't be caught.

Caryss brought up the rear, and for a moment the lot of them were creeping through an almost entirely darkened passage. The only light was the other end, where Lyra could just barely make out the sound of crashing waves. The ground was at a slight incline, and every so often she had to bend her head to avoid the low ceiling. No one spoke; they barely even breathed as they walked on.

Lyra only let the air out of her lungs when they all emerged from the tunnel on the other side. They stood on a beach, and beyond them stretched an outcropping of light stone bluffs with a narrow road winding up between the nearest two. The ocean wind that was blocked by the town walls hit them full force out in the open. It screamed so loudly in her ears that when someone let out a shout of alarm, she nearly mistook it for a particularly intense gust.

It was only when Sera grasped her arm that Lyra turned and saw that a Green knight in full armor had grabbed hold of Caryss and had begun to shake her violently.

"No!" Sera shouted, rushing forward. Lyra just barely managed to grab hold of her arm, yanking her back as she spat and fought.

"Keep going!" Lyra shouted. "I'll get her!"

She had no idea if the flaxen-haired girl could hear her over the wind, but maybe Sera was able to read the look in her eyes. Lyra felt a similar determination that she had felt only a few hours before when she met the girl the first time.

She all but shoved Sera back towards the other women. "Keep moving!"

Lyra broke out into a sprint, running back towards Caryss and the knight before he could do anything to her. It seemed like the wind grew louder in her ears; it teased her and taunted her and pushed her back like it could keep her from reaching the other woman.

She was nearly there, a few deep steps in the sand and she made it, colliding solidly with the knight and grabbing at what she could to wrench him away from Caryss. He had a firm grip on her bicep—Lyra clawed at his fingers, scrabbling at them one by one, scratching and pulling until she had released Caryss from his grip with a grunt.

"Go!" she shouted, pushing Sera's mother away as far as she could into the sand so the wind could take her back to the others. "Run, get out of here!"

A sharp pain blossomed across the right side of her face, and for a moment all sound and sight stopped entirely. Stars dotted across her vision and the taste of iron flooded her mouth as a second, duller pain hit the left side of her body. It seemed like a full minute before she remembered how to breathe, and another before she became aware of her whole body again.

She had fallen into the sand. The knight was yelling, but her ears were still ringing. Her face was searing with pain. With a grimace, she tried to drag herself back, away from him.

Too slow. In her muddled brain, she almost laughed at how pathetic her attempt at escape was. He grabbed hold of her bicep like he had Caryss—

The others. Lyra blinked through the pain and chanced a glance over her shoulder. At least the knight had decided to focus his energy on punishing her. Caryss and Sera and the others were specks running up the path through the bluffs. If he stayed occupied with her, she prayed they could make it to the forest without being caught by anyone else.

"—bitch!" The sounds of the wind around her were still coming in and out. "—have you hanged! How dare—"

The man—she didn't really want to call him a knight—had her by the arm and pulled her up off the ground roughly. She winced in pain, causing her cheek to scream in protest. Everything came into focus for a moment before becoming overexposed.

"—won Duskendale, burned your ships and killed your men and let you live, and you spit our mercy back into our faces like filthy rats!"

He didn't recognize her. She heard a quick swish of steel before a cold knife was at her throat. He thought she was a Duskendale refugee like the others. Lyra sucked in as measured a breath as she could muster.

"I'm no rat," she hissed. "And I would certainly be more aware of who I'm speaking to."

The man only faltered for a second, but it was enough for her to know he wouldn't kill her. Knights always wanted someone to obey. His grip on her arm tightened as he yanked her closer, moving his knife away as he did so. His eyes roved over her, finally noticing the quality of her clothes, the fine stitching of her cloak, the embroidery on her bodice.

"So?" he snarled finally. "Darklyn nobility? Even worse for you, I'd wager."

Lyra felt warmth trickle down from her cheek onto her neck. She had to force herself to stay upright—the man was holding her just high enough so she was slightly off balance, her toes scrabbling slightly against the soft sand. Despite it all, she did her best to square her shoulders.

"I am Lady Lyra Strong, an envoy of Lord Larys Strong of Harrenhal sent to accompany the King's army." She scrambled for someone to confirm her story. "Ser Gwayne. Hightower. He'll prove it."

She could see him thinking as he looked her up and down. After a moment, his expression hardened and he tightened his grip again. "No," he said, yanking her back towards the tunnel. "You'll come with me to the lord Commander. If you're important enough to name knights, you'll answer to Ser Criston."

// the party ended a year ago and i'm still here... back for lyra my poor neglected child. Thank you to ethelcained for the edit that actually gave me the motivation to FINALLY pick this chapter up. It drags a little in the middle i think but i like the women storyline and had trouble thinking of ways for lyra to try to escape that weren't too successful or alternatively would not get her shot on the spot el em ay oh. I fear she does have quite a bit of plot armor which will only worsen as the story goes on. Also i promise the gwayne content only goes up from here *evil smirk*