There's a chill in the air from the gentle summer snows, Lyarra tries to block out the cool air, stoking the logs within the hearth. And atop of these logs, sit three shimmering stones. She'd found them beneath the crypt. She'd often go there for comfort, resting her head against the stone wall, near the crypt of her Aunt Lyanna. She would stare up at the statue, eyes tracing over the curve of her lips, her sweet playful smile. And she would wonder if it was as beautiful in life as it was in death. It had to be, everyone always said so whenever they'd compare Lyarra to her likeness. Claiming she was Lyanna come again, much to lady Catelyn's chagrin, with her dark eyes, long pale face and hair so dark it almost seemed black.

Although Lyarra doesn't really think so, they say Lyanna Stark was beautiful, Lyarra never thought herself as beautiful. Not in all her six and ten years has anyone ever genuinely called her beautiful, save her father and Robb. But that was her father and Robb that's what they're supposed to say.

Now Sansa, she was turning out to be a real beauty, and held great promise for it in the future. But Lyarra? No, she doesn't think so. But it didn't help much, with how she always makes herself fade into the background, to keep everyone's stares at bay, their attention away from the Bastard of Winterfell. She always wore dark woolen dresses to blend in with the grey ancient walls, to camouflage and disappear. And it worked to, all until the king came to Winterfell, for he noticed her right away. Lyanna he had called her, and she cursed her aunt, cursed the gods and herself for making it seem so. Though, she felt guilty about it afterwards. It wasn't Lyanna or the gods and for the first time not even herself that was at fault. It was King Robert, and everyone who remembered when the she-wolf breathed air. Always trying to find that willfulness and wildness in her that they claimed was in Lyanna, hoping they can have their she-wolf again only to be left disappointed when they don't. She couldn't afford to be willful or wild, it didn't help that she was a bastard girl, two strikes in society stacked against her.

It makes her all the more bitter and melancholy. Like most of Winterfell. It was silent, it's never been this silent, so eerily quiet. And the only sound that rings through the air is the howling of wolves, their howls the only sound being carried in the cold winds. Only two were missing, Lady and Nymeria. No, not two, not truly. Three wolves were missing. Sansa, Arya and father, venturing south, faraway from the North, from Winterfell, from family. The thought made her shiver. 'Starks don't fare well in the south,' Old Nan had once told her. 'They're Northerners, they belong in the north, lest something tragic happens and it always does'. But what happens when the Northmen stay in the north, but the southerners leave the south?

Bran's frail little body comes to mind, deathly pale and barely breathing. She can feel an ache forming in her chest, tears ready to swell but she swallows it all down. There's no use in crying, she thinks, tears won't help anyone. And a bastards tears mean little, a bastard can't afford it.' she feels bitterness clawing at her again, but forces that down to.

'Let me give you some advice bastard. Never forget what you are, the rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor and it can never be used to hurt you.' she remembers those harsh but wise words, stained in her memory. 'What do you know about being a bastard?' she had retorted quickly. 'All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes,' he replied, yet she was still not convinced, placing her hands on her hips, ire rising. 'And what could you possibly know about being a woman and a bastard in a world where men hate them both.' he'd been taken aback, mouth gaped open, before recovering quickly from his bemusement, a smile that almost seemed sad and eyes gleaming in curiosity. 'Well, I don't know much about it. Most men don't, and that shall be their greatest downfall and your strongest weapon,' she had seen the truth of it then, had understood.

The fire in the logs died down and she found herself slowly reaching her hand in, gently touching the curve of the stone. When she'd first held it in her hands, it had felt...alive. Alive with heat, and a vibration that made her hand tremble. In fear or anticipation she couldn't decide. She could understand the fear but anticipation… It was all odd, all so queer. The stones and the Dire-wolves. Dire-wolves that haven't been seen south of the wall for hundreds of years, and they suddenly re-appear. A mother wolf with a stags antler in her throat, her children left to fend for themselves. And they wouldn't have survived had their party not happened upon them. It was strange, a sign, yet father never believed in signs.

And the stones… whenever she was near them she heard a constant chant play in her head, sometimes stealing sleep from her and haunting them when she did. Fire. Fire, they'd chant repeatedly. Once it had gotten so bad, she was half convinced to take them to her father. Until she remembered how quick he was in deciding the fate of the Dire wolf pups, had she not been there… She couldn't fathom the thought of not having Ghost at her side, it was as if the she-wolf belonged with Lyarra, like an extension of her soul-'No you go too far,' she chastised herself, 'she's just a companion'. She looks at the pile of white fur snuggled comfortably in her bed, before looking back at the stones.

There was one, that was the darkest shade of indigo, another that was as white as snow with specks of blue and gold, while the other was black with specks of red. It was odd, really, why would she need to protect stones from her lord father, when they are just that, stones. Yet she'd also been reluctant in showing her siblings, still hasn't to be exact. For they were beautiful and hers. One look around her room and you'd think it belonged to a guest or servant, she didn't have pretty decorations or items saved from fond memories, like her siblings. It was a mother's job to bestow that type of love onto her child, to put that much thought and care and love into the child's life, even into their rooms. And Lyarra didn't have a mother, Lady Catelyn had made sure she'd known that when Lyarra once made the mistake of calling the woman 'mama'. But these… they belong to her and she cherished them. She loved them.

The pleads and chants for fire weren't the only thing plaguing her dreams. Although in these dreams she found an strange sort of peace among them. Some nights she would dream of flying, the wind kissing her hot skin, as she looked below her from the heavens. The heavens, she would marvel, and think herself a god, far more pride and confidence than she has when she wakes. Then on other nights, she'd be on the solid ground, strong and aware of every detail. She would smell her prey, smell the fresh and moist soil, hear the small little creatures feet sinking into it. And when her game was caught, she could taste the blood, it would flow warmly down her throat and she'd relish the sweet taste. But when she woke she could still taste the iron on her tongue and bile would rise in her throat. Lyarra didn't know what to make of these dreams, didn't know if she wanted them to continue or stop.

She stared at the stones intently, a sudden urge building within her, fingers twitching. She wanted to know what they were, why they looked the way they looked, why she could feel heat radiating and feel vibration, why they always chanted fire. Why did they want fire. Is this magic, sorcery of some kind, did I happen upon cursed stones? Perhaps this is a punishment from the old gods, for always wanting more than I have, more than I have any right to want.

Fire. Fire, they chanted once again. The Library Tower. There were scrolls and tomes dating back thousands of years ago, there has to be some parchment that contains some information, even just a little, to where she could form a hypothesis, a reason, if not a conclusion based on fact. She grabs a thick woolen cloak, grabbing the hot stones, that mysteriously didn't leave blemishes on her skin, and placing them in the center of the cloak before tying it all together. She carriers the improvised sack of stones out of her room, soon exiting the Great Keep making her way toward the tower.

The wind howled and so did the wolves, giving an ominous warning, and a foreboding feeling sinks within her. She quickly shakes the feel away, drowning it out with her curiosity for the pretty stones. There are few people outside, but she ignored them as they have always done her but she misses those aqua blue eyes watching her from afar. She walks the up the cobblestone steps, entering the tower. Immediately she's engulfed in the scents of old parchment and ink. She sees scrolls scattered about, piling on chairs and tables, scrunched up in the shelves. Maester Luwin often made use of this place, practically his playground. He preferred it over the Maester's tower, if that said anything, giving the children of Winterfell lessons here or meeting with her Lord Father. She goes to a nearby table, placing the cloak on top before unwrapping the stones, they shimmered in the dim torch light. She goes to light the hearth, bringing back a candle to settle on the table. then goes to the shelves. For maester you'd think he'd be more organized, she ticks her tongue, trying to find anything related to minerals and stones. Until she hears something crash, abruptly turning around to see ink splatter on the floor along with a few parchment. When she looks up to see the corporate, her heart freezes.

His face is ugly and grim, eyes shining menacingly, mouth twisted in a sneer. His dirty blonde hair shined in the light, his eyes a dull green. A dagger in hand, he slowly walks toward her and she instinctively backs away, heart pounding. She wants to scream but she can't, "You're not supposed to be here little girl," he says insidiously. Her back hits the table, and she's vaguely aware of the stone that nearly roles off.

"No,"she croaks out, her voice small, shaking her head.

He lunges at her, hand gripping her mouth to muffle her screams, dagger ready to pierce. Her hand grasp onto, the steel cold and biting into her skin, the harder she gripped the deeper the slice. It hurts like hell, but all she can think about is not dying, not the pain she feels now, but brutal end she will meet later. She struggles, making the table creak and tip over, his large form falling top of her, knocking the air out of her lungs. She can smell smoke and burning parchment, when he wraps his hands around her throat, discarding the knife entirely. The smoke only grows along with the heat, but he doesn't seem to care, so focused on choking the life out of her. She claws his hands, nails digging until flesh is beneath them, but it makes him squeeze harder. He's panting and his breath smells of mead and ale. His eye's are sinister and hateful. Her hands thrash around, trying to find something, anything, as her vision slowly slips and darkens. Her hand finds the cold steel that would have ended her sooner. She grabs hold of it, haggardly thrusting it into his neck. His blood sprays onto her when she pulls out, before he collapses onto her.

The fire has spread by now, burning through shelves of books and scrolls, adding fuel to the flames. It engulfed everything around her, biting at her hair, as she tries to push his limp body off of her. She can smell his skin cooking and she wonders if hers does the same, for she can smell her burning hair, can feel the fire kissing her skin. Yet it is all so pleasantly warm, even when the flames begin to turn her woolen dress into ash.

Lyarra knows she's going to die, knew it when she first saw those menacing eyes and fleshy sneer.

The weight of his dead body doesn't feel so heavy anymore, rolling from under him with little trouble. Her stones are near her, painted in blood just as much as she is. There still beautiful, she thinks. The flames engulf her body completely and it felt like a dip in the hot springs. It isn't as painful as she thought it'd be, she doesn't feel any pain at all. She never thought dying by fire could be so calm and peaceful.

Uncle Benjen had once told her that harsh snows could give you the same. Said that it'd creep on you peacefully, after a while, a warm fuzzy feel embracing you as death came gently. The most peaceful way a man can go, but most men never get. That's what his fellow Brother's had told him, those that ventured beyond the Wall when snow storms nearly killed them. Perhaps fire was the same, but no one's ever lived to tell it.

Fire. Mayhaps it wasn't any different from ice. Ice and Fire, they're both dangerous and compassionate. She closes her eyes in content.

Her blood starts to rush, her panting becomes rapid, before the sound of cracking exterior is heard. At first she thinks it's the ceiling or perhaps another shelf until she hears a shriek. It is faint and small amongst the chaos but she hears it all the same. Then another and another. The sounds of tiny wailing and shrieking ring throughout the smoky tower and her heart beat quickens. Then she feels it, feels them. Their small silky bodies wrapped around her thigh, arm and breast. Lyarra is overwhelmed with the sudden feelings of love and comfort, rising from the ash and flame.