The man left her standing there alone, cold and wet and surrounded by strangers. They stared at her with unkind eyes, and she was rooted to the spot, suddenly feeling utterly desolate and exposed.
What will I do?
She gazed around, looking for some sign of where to go. A large woman wearing an apron, who had been watching the scene, beckoned her over with a flour-covered hand.
“The kitchens is this way,” she grumbled, disappearing in a doorway. Lyanna followed numbly through a dark tunnel until she found herself in a large cavern, brightly lit from the rows of stone ovens, their fires reflected in the shiny pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. At this hour only a few boys worked, scrubbing down a mountain of dishes. Lyanna registered none of it.
The woman sat her down at a crooked table, covered her shoulders with something scratchy but warm, and pushed a small pot of brown slop at her. She was choking it down before the woman could give her a spoon. It was hot and thick and filled her stomach, and Lyanna wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
The woman grimaced. “I don’t like your kind in ‘ere. Wha’s your name?”
“Lyanna Stark,” she replied, trying to scoop out the remains of the stew with her fingers.
The cook shook her head, took the pot from her and set it aside. She went to find some dry clothes, then threw them at her and led her to a small room off the kitchens where rows of girls slept upon straw pallets before a roaring hearth.
“Listen, we got a shortage of scullery maids ‘round here an’ too many mouths to feed. I’m not like to let no one eat for free, so if you wanna stay, you’ll haveta earn your keep.”
“I am no scullery maid,” Lyanna said indignantly, throwing the clothes to the ground.
The woman sighed and furrowed her unibrow. There was no humor in her eyes. “Well, you wanna tell me your real name at least, Miss High-and-Mighty?”
“I am Lyanna Stark,” she said stubbornly.
“Right, an’ I’m a Targaryen.”
Lyanna flinched at the word, and suddenly everything came back to her in a flood of despair.
The woman left her, shaking her head.
It was warm. She had not stopped shivering. When her boots came off her feet were bloody and blistered, but she was too numb to notice. Her chest ached with a sharp pain, but she did not think of that either. She changed into the dry clothes, without a care if any of the slumberers were awake, and found an empty pallet next to the fire.
When her head hit the straw, the tears came, and she cried until morning. She finally dozed off, unable to stay awake any longer even if she’d wanted to. In her dreams, the rain swirled and danced and the storm clouds in the sky formed a pair of violet eyes, which drowned her in their tears.