Lyon was extremely aware she was handling the situation like a petulant child, but her anger had blossomed rather quick- quicker than she had. After Jory's death, she found herself with a tear-stained pillow, each night bringing a new bout of sobs that wracked her to the core. Her bed sheets held his faint scent, and that was enough to turn her into a sobbing mess. She was sure the guards outside could hear her, but a certain point came and passed where she failed to care any longer who heard her. It was hard enough having to wake up every morning to face the day, let alone hide the pain.

Several days had passed. Despite her anger toward her containment in the keep, she could hardly bring herself to leave. Often a thought would rise about her "assignment", but her exhaustion would take her in its grasp faster than she was able to plot. Raphael would be getting impatient soon. Whether she liked it or not, Lyon would have to find a way out of the keep without drawing attention to herself. And without using the front door.

She kept her distance from her bed, knowing that even the slightest reminder of Jory would be her downfall. A clear head was what she needed, and she hadn't yet begun to cry that night. There was still hope that she could find her target and do away with him that night. If she could get outside.

Lyon tried her room's door, finding the two guards standing alert nearby. As she walked, they began to follow. For several minutes she pretended that she hadn't noticed, but they were soon close enough to truly be noticed. She wondered how to lose them. Turning around and simply asking would be a fruitless endeavor, no doubt. Losing them around a corner- perhaps? The oldest trick in the book but it had proven reliable to her before.

They kept behind her as Lyon seemingly made to stretch her legs. She didn't acknowledge, which typically would be unusual behavior, but the guards doing their rounds heard her at night. A depression had sunk its way into Lyon's chest.

The guards watched her as she went, and followed. They were still several paces away from her when she turned a corner and was briefly torn from their watchful eyes. She remained absent even as they turned the corner. They uttered instructions to each other and split up, one going another way than the other until neither stood before the closet door just around the corner. When their footsteps faded from earshot, the closet door slid ajar, and Lyon slipped out. She hurried from the Keep, ducking into the shadows as guards would pass or come near. None seemed to notice her as she swept past, into the kitchen, and out the door that led into the courtyards. She took a running leap at the wall surrounding the keep, vaulted over and landed in her freedom. Then, she began to hunt.

Raphael hadn't named the brothel, but the man's name was enough. And by the sound of him, Lyon would hardly need anything more than the dagger concealed within her boot. Albeit a dress was hardly proper attire to go murdering in, it was all she had at the moment, and it hid her weapon wonderfully. She only hoped the hem didn't catch at her feet. At least her gown wasn't so extravagant that passerby pegged her for someone of importance. Unfortunately, she was a familiar face. That would have to change.

The streets were filled with beggars and scoundrel. Some women, some men, many of them only children.  They paid her little mind other than a few wide-eyed stares. One of them Lyon approached, letting her face become obscure in the darkness.

"I'm looking for a man. Rolan Drumm. You know him?"

The beggar, a scruffy man who seemed in his forties although Lyon couldn't be sure, eyes her from head to toe. He squinted her face, trying to make out her features in the dark. She rustled a coin purse, distracting his curious gaze from recognizing her features.

"I'll pay you handsomely whether or not you know. Just tell me the truth. If you lie to me, I'll know." She dropped the purse in his hands and folded her arms.

Sputtering, the man spoke. "Th-the slimy bastard goes to Gold's Dust every night, bragging to the ladies about his winning and how rich he is. Blows all his 'earnings' there every night. Always goes back for more. That's all I know."

"Good man." Lyon offered generously. She clapped him on the back, and before the homeless could speak again, she was into the shadows again. Gold's Dust was a place she knew of through passing, as it was with most places. Lyon was sure she knew the darkest corners of Kingslanding better than she knew the many rooms of the Red Keep. Tonight she would get to know those dark corners even better, it seemed.

Gold's Dust wasn't that far off from Alora's own home, and the outside was dimly lit in red candles and light, golden banners and stained windows that shimmered in the moonlight. This wasn't a run of the mill brothel, she assumed. Upon entering, she found herself correct. There was the cacophony of moans echoing through the establishment. The scent of sex and sweat pervading every scent and making the room familiarly muggy. A woman caught Lyon's eye and made her way forward, each sultry step making Lyon remember her own romps within similar walls.

"You look lost, little lamb. Let me show you how to get home." She reached for Lyon's hand, the woman's delicate grasp enticing her further. The woman was curvaceous to say the least. Thighs twice as thick as Lyon's own- she imagined all the men that had been between them. She imagined herself in their place and felt herself flush with heat.

"I-I think I've stepped into the wrong establishment." She murmured, pulling her hand away and fleeing outside. Lyon stopped short in the shadows outside of the building. Perhaps it would be wiser to test her luck by simply waiting for the man.

She didn't count the minutes, only watched the moon move in its path across the sky. It was over halfway through its journey when a man emerged from the brothel, chuckling drunkenly. He rubbed at his crotch. A few coins fell.

Lyon perked up at the noise. "Hello?" She called. The man did acknowledge her. Louder, this time. "Hello?"

The man turned, staggering drunkenly in place. "Yeh? W-whose there?"

"No one important." She replied. "Are you the Rolan Drumm I've been hearing so much about?"

"That I am- an uh, where are yuh? I've not got me spectacles on." 

Lyon slipped from the shadows and stepped toward the drunkard, halted several paces away. He squinted at her, then grinned. It made him look young. Lyon hardly saw him as being older than her own father. As he saw her, he began to inch forward. "Why you're a pretty thing, aren't yuh?"

"Something tells me you've had your fair share of pretty things tonight." She said, her husky voice seemed to draw him forward. Each step he took, she took one back. Then they were both in the shadows.

"Aye, but I've got quite the... quite the endurance."

"How unfortunate."

"Why's tha?" He slurred. Lyon cocked her head, glistening green eyes reflecting the moonlight as she shook her head.

"Because someone wants you dead, Drumm."

He hadn't noticed her slip the dagger from her boot, neither did he register the thrust as she plunged the blade deep into his rib-cage, covering his outcry from escaping with her other hand. He didn't cry out long though, as she felt his body slump over her blade. Lyon withdrew her hand and blade and stepped away as the dead man collapsed. She eyed his corpse for several minutes after his desk, making sure he didn't rise again. Once sure that Rolan Drumm would not awaken again, Lyon took her leave of the scene and slunk back toward the Red Keep.

When she returned, the guards found her in the kitchens, munching sleepily on some bread. She seemed exhausted- too exhausted to return to her rooms, and one of the guards carried her back to her chambers.

"What in the seven hells do you mean we're leaving?" Lyon all but cried out in frustration. The septa had found her in her room, sleeping with little trace of a conscious. Lyon wasn't sure what worried her more. The septa's news, or her own guiltless conscience.

Septa Mordane sighed and went to sit at the end of her bed. "By your father's orders, you are to pack your belongings. He intends to return you and your sisters to Winterfell."

"I can't say I blame him, but why now, septa? Sansa and Arya surely didn't take this news well."

"They surely did not." She agreed. "But he is doing it to protect you all. Kingslanding it not as safe. Not since your father was attacked."

"Kingslanding was never safe, regardless of my father being attacked. This damn place is full of snakes."

"Not snakes. Lion's, my dear."

Lyon met her septa's heavy eyes and found herself agreeing. "I will pack my things, and leave as my father bids. It is the safest option."

"I'm glad you think so." The septa rose, planting a kiss on the girl's forehead before taking her leave. Lyon was alone again, and as he had been told, she began to pack her belongings. It hardly took long, with what little she brought with her. Soon enough the chest of hers was full and locked shut. She only took a moment to eye her barren chambers before exiting her room and treading down the hall. The guard at her door began to follow closely. After the incident with them finding her in the kitchens, they preferred to keep a much closer eye on the slippery Stark.

There was a burst of noise from down the hall when she emerged, and elsewhere in the keep.

"What's going on?" She murmured, too herself mostly, but the guard following her answered.

"The King's hunting party, most likely."

"Sounds a little too frantic to be a warm welcome, don't you think?" She exchanged a look with the guard before they both quickened their pace down the hall. They took a flight of stairs down to the Keep's entrance, where a throng of soldiers and guards lingered. Lyon briefly caught sight of a portly body being carried along, a physician remaining at less than arms reach from the body even as they hurried onward. His hands were covered in blood.

"Is that-"

"The King. Yes." The guard answered her, and Lyon fell silent.

"Gods help him." She murmured under her breath. "Gods help my father."

The guard looked down at her in puzzlement, but Lyon's face was remarkably blank. She turned and made her way back up the steps, the image of the King's blood, and her victims blood flashing dangerously in the back of her mind.