fin / two / tyler lyon

My name is Tyler Lyon. I am eighteen years old as of writing. I have two brothers and one sister, as of writing. I used to have more, but that talk isn't for a journal introduction. The purpose of this page is in case of loss or damage to this book, unlikely considering the fact that I store it in the sleeve of another book in the overfilled shelves of my room, as of writing, yet it is still possible. To that effect, please do not read the following pages. Especially if you're Bronn, or Joffery. If I find out either of your filthy fingers have been polluting the pages of my private thoughts, I'll find a way to stop you doing it again, and that's a promise. A Lyon always keeps their promises.

Thank you for your cooperation. Regards,

Tyler Lyon

---

It's impossible to deny that my fears hinder me more than anything in my life. The most frustrating thing about them is that, even when I try to thwart them with logic as I do every other obstacle in my way, still they remain. They are totally irrational and thus, to me, totally hateful.

My family knows this, Jaime and Circe made sure to taunt me about it every day from when I was born, the third, and already the most hated member of our rage-fuelled family unit. And yet, despite knowing it, my father insists that I continue training to become a Career. Jaime and Circe, and Tommen and Joffery and Mercy, who came after me and who learnt to shun me through legacy rather than through legitimacy, took to the sport of killing with open arms and bloody fists. At first I begged to be let alone from the training, promising to become a great scholar instead. But it wasn't in my father's wishes. Nothing I did was ever in my father's wishes.

Therefore, as a solution, I have decided to list every emergency situation I can think of which may arise from a Training scenario, and a solution to it.

Emergency 1: I am afraid of pain.

I have listed this emergency first, not only because it was the one that came to mind first, but because it has probably played the most significant part in the development of my other fears. As a young boy, the memories of being in pain are far sharper and easy to recall than the sparse memories of joy. I am six years old, face down on the floor, with my arm twisted up and behind my back. I can feel Jaime's knee pressing between my shoulderblades, and over the sound of my own pig-like shrieks I can hear Circe taunting.

"Say it. Say you're a rat who's insulting our family name. Call yourself an ugly treacherous rat or Jaime will break your arm."

All because I submitted to a bully at school. As it was, I had never been taught, or been able to teach myself, how to stand up to people like that bully, or like Jaime and Circe, and so when I lay on the floor, the pale skin of my forearm turning whiter where Jaime's fingers dug in, my wide nose pressed against the wooden floorboards until I almost could breathe, I used my last air to gasp out "yes, I'm a rat, please stop, I'm a rat, stop, I beg you."

There is no solution to a fear of pain, although it at least gives me some solace to know that it's the people who enjoy pain who are deluded, not the ones like me who actively try and avoid it. If I had my way, I would spend my whole life somewhere soft, and safe. I wish I still had a mother. A mother, whose pains are greater than anyone's, would understand.

Emergency 2: I am afraid of heights.

I love to look up at the stars, but thinking of being a star looking down at the earth is nauseating. I'm happier with my feet firmly on the earth, that's for sure. When gravity pulls at me, tugging at my throat or resting like pebbles in the pit of my stomach, I am seized by an intense fear of falling. My brother - half-brother - and his sister excel at all physical feats, the fighting, sprinting and feats of strength as well as being able to scale the height of the gymnasium in under ten seconds. I am held back, by the tremble in my fingers and the waver in my confidence.

When I was thirteen, my father made me jump from the awning over my window into a huge mound of hay below. He promised me that facing my fears was the only way to conquer them. I believed him, even though I knew he detested me, knew that he blamed me for my mother's death during my birth (the first and only murder I ever intend to commit), knew that he had raised Circe and Jaime and Joffery against me since they were old enough to discern between those to respect and those to hate - yes, I truly believed that he wanted to me to succeed. Perhaps in part he did. There may have been some small fraction of his soul that prayed that I would see past my hindrances and redeem myself from the crime of not being like the others. The whole rest of him, however, had thrown away any hope of redemption, and so had settled on simply punishing me for the rest of my life.

I jumped, and as I did I was certain I was going to die.

The drop lasted years. I saw myself as a baby, oddly proportioned face glaring up with slanted blue eyes as my beautiful siblings took it in turns to see which of them dared to hold my nose and cover my mouth the longest. I watched myself vomiting and shaking through my first real panic attack, remembered the horror as a spider had dropped onto my face and run across my thick pink lips. Behind me, as I heave, Joffery stands laughing with the spider cupped between his hands. I listen with pride to myself as I teach Tommen rude jokes to keep him entertained as we wait for the call to the Reaping. My whole life goes past again, and then suddenly the smell of hay is in my nostrils and I have stopped falling.

Perhaps I could have conquered my fear that day if I was left to appreciate the smell of hay - the affirmation that I was still alive. I could have made my father proud, one by one conquered all the rest of my fears, felt connected to my younger half-siblings and to my older full ones. But as the smell of hay was replaced by the thick, spiced smell of smoke, and the crackle of wet straw was accompanied by the malicious laughter of my two sisters, I realised that even if I had become strong enough to connect with my family, they would never want to connect with me.

Emergency 3 - I am afraid of fire.

My other fears may be connected to events, but if they are then I have voluntarily blocked them out due to the horror of them. Else they're based on caution, or self-consciousness, or proven unhappy situations.

I am afraid of drowning. I am afraid of the cold. I am afraid of sunburn. I am afraid of having allergies I am unaware of. I am afraid of the pitch black. I am afraid of sounds I cannot source. I am afraid of strangers. I am afraid of bleeding. I am afraid of suffocating. I am afraid of the spontaneous failure of my organs. I am afraid of breaking my bones.

I am afraid that I am too pale too short too thin too dark-haired too weak too feminine too high-voiced too "pretty" too sour-faced too different.

I am afraid that I am too quiet too shy too humourless too dependent too superstitious too forlorn too whiny too contrary too introverted.

I am afraid of being unlovable.

I am afraid that I am too alien.

I am afraid that I am too afraid.

---

Today I looked in the mirror and I understood that I was ugly. My siblings, two dead and three more who would rather I died instead, and heralded endlessly for their beauty. But I had to go and be the odd one out, didn't I?

I don't mind the way I look. There are worse things in life to be than ugly, and at least I'm not poor. I've found that money can mostly make up for any of the characteristics I missed out on in the gene tombola. I wouldn't consider Bronn, the street rat I met exactly where I looked for him - on the way out of a fighting ring - to be a friend, but certainly my wealth keeps him close enough that I can confide in him like one.

One thing I do wish about myself is that I was taller. My arms are already too long for my short torso, and my legs are as awkwardly proportioned as my strange facial features. The heavy lids over my eyes make it difficult to see people who are taller than me without tilting my head up, something I loathe to do as it leaves my neck exposed. I suppose, however, that my brooding look does match my personality. The drawn together eyebrows and pouting lips suggest my pensive behaviour - yes, although my mind is so often full of fears I'd rather dwell on them there than in real life. I am frequently referred to as too smart for my own good, and am unlovingly called "the Imp" by some. I have always believed, however, that by embracing that notion of myself, wearing it like armour, I can prevent it from being used as a weapon against me, and defend myself from my emergencies with it.

I learnt to use my tongue rather than my fists to fight myself out of a situation when it became clear to me that there was no way out of training to become a Career. My father, I suspect, is the only person who sees through my quips and the verbal knots I can tie my opponents in. At least we have that in common. My words can't prevent my fears from seizing me, but they tend to keep me out of situations where I might have to face them. Besides, they impress Tommen, and Bronn too. Nevertheless, my words aren't always aptly chosen, and can get me into trouble. Note to self: be careful who you try to size up.

And so, no matter what my face looks like, as long as the tongue inside it is cool and sharp, I am confident I can protect myself at least a little. I calm myself down knowing that I can find a way to have the upper hand. As well as that, with money in my pockets and a strong team behind me, who can really stop me?

And what is there really to be afraid of?