The work was hard for one not accustomed to scrubbing pots and floors. Anya's knees were bloody from cleaning the kitchen floor after the autumn feast. Once soft hands had calloused over in a short amount of time and though the Starks treated their workers well, she was thinning and had to cut a new hole in the leather belt around her waist just to keep the wool pants from falling down. There were many things she missed about living in Harrenhal, the library mostly, and the weather, but to be away from her father and his harsh word's was a blessing, no matter how hard she had to work in return for food and shelter.
"Girl!" She questioned if the shout was directed at her, and undoubtedly it was as there was no one else in the kitchen at this hour except for the old hag who had been brewing a medicine. "Take this to Eddard's room, tell him that this draught will help with his stomach ache," spidery fingers shoved the warm tankard of tonic into her shaking hands, without question Anya left the warmth of the kitchen and ventured into the cold Northern night.
Eddard Stark's voice sounded hoarse when he spoke aloud, granting Anya permission to enter the room. He was seventeen now and still growing. "My lord, I've come to give you a tonic for your ailment." She could see that he was pale, more so than usual, and a thin sheen of sweat had gathered on his brow. The brew had lost some of its warmth but still wispy tendrils of smoke rose from the foul colored liquid. "Thank you." Quickly she curtsied on wobbling knees and turned back when the second born child spoke again. "I've seen your face before."
Anya froze and kept her eyes on the stone floor, unable to look up. "I'm only a scullery maid," but the quiet wolf was not so easily fooled by her humility and skittishness. There was still something about the girl that spoke of her noble birth. '"You were at Harrenhal during the tourney!" The level of surety within Lord Eddard's voice told her that no amount of lying and pleading could conceal the truth any longer yet she still tried to play the role of serving girl, a scullery maid, nobody.
The Whent girl dared to meet Ned's gaze, his grey eyes were a reflection of his mood and now they were somewhere between the softness of fog and the hardness of steel. Anya shook her head, wincing as she continued on with the lie. "You must be mistaken. I must go, my lord. I bid you a good rest," before the young lord could offer any consolation to the girl and ask why she was so far from home she had fled into the night, returning to her chambers with only a threadbare blanket and dying fire for warmth.
As the next morning broke over the land Anya Whent carried out her daily tasks with apprehension, every glance that was cast in her direction seemed to be treacherous, accusing her of some terrible crime against the realm. With shaking hands she scrapped the burned bits of bacon from a cast iron pan, hardly noticing when the knife slipped in her grasp and made a clean slit within her palm. The pain did not faze her while she worked, only when a household guard came into the kitchens wearing dark leathers and heavy furs did she notice the blood. "Lord Rickard has asked to see you," after the events of the night prior she knew it was only a matter of time before she would have to answer why she was hiding as a maid in Winterfell and why she had run away from Harrenhal. The walk across the snowy courtyard had seemed miles in the frigid air, nothing burned like the cold.
The members of the Stark family had gathered in the Great Hall of Winterfell; Maester Walys and Ser Rodrik with his young nephew, Jory, were present as well. Anya glanced down at her poor appearance and wondered what they must have thought of her. A highborn lady pretending to be a maid, surely they saw her as a craven. Rickard Stark sat next to his wife, Lady Lyarra. Beneath a stern brow and withered grey eyes was the kindness of a father looking upon a lost child.
Lyarra Stark took her lord husband's hand, rather gently, and spoke with nothing but her clear blue eyes. Long silences had always caused Anya to be on edge, most often when she was scolded for something there was a long silence before her father yelled and cursed her, raising his hand but never striking. But there had been one time when she was struck, not by his hand, but by a whip and the two scars stung on her back at the memory.
Suddenly the Whent girl could not bear to look upon the Starks and in silence she sobbed, her shoulders shaking as she imagined what they were planning to do with her. Brandon Stark saw a likeness in the young girl that reminded him of Lyanna and at seeing the girl cry he stood from his seat at the high table, pulled off his cloak and wrapped it snuggly around Anya's shoulders, tipping her chin up so that she could see his smile. The young pup, Benjen, was the next to come to her side. He was only three years older than her, thin as a blade with piercing blue eyes that looked at the girl in a kindly fashion. He smiled at her and took a step closer to her side.
Lyanna turned to her father, speaking to him in a soft voice so the words would not reach Anya. Benjen reached down, taking the Whent girl's uninjured hand into his. Lord Rickard stood from his seat, as did Lyarra and the two remaining Stark children that had not joined the frightened girl, "Anya Whent, you will be permitted to stay here in Winterfell under the condition that if Lord Whent comes to take you back you will go with him," the little Lady looked up in disbelief, she had expected to be sent back to Harrenhal immediately, to be punished, something harsher than being welcomed.
"Thank you, Lord Stark." Brandon and Benjen each placed a hand on her shoulder, Lyanna smiled and even Eddard had a certain warmth in his eyes as he looked down at his new sister. "Follow me, sweet child," Lyarra Stark offered her hand to the frightened girl to take. Her kindness reminded Anya of her own mother, but Lyarra was more withered in appearance, her dark hair was dry and her smile, though kind, spoke of the cruelty of the land. Anya followed without question from the Great Hall and through the open courtyard to the sleeping quarters of the noble family. The walls were hewn from granite, over a hot spring, warm water circulated through the walls of the Great Keep, keeping the chill at bay, a comfort even Harrenhal did not have.
Lady Stark showed the girl a room, furnished with an array of old clothing that was near her size. "Your room will be near Lyanna's, you will dine with us, take lessons from our mentors, and be raised the Northern way." Anya had no objections to such requests, with no reserve, she wrapped her arms around the lady's waist and was pleasantly surprised when Lyarra lifted her up for a moment to return the embrace. When they parted, Lady Stark gathered a wash basin and strip of cloth. Having experience with her own children made cleaning and bandaging the girl's hand easy. Lyarra placed a kiss upon Anya's forehead. "We'll see you at supper, dearest."
Winter was approaching in the North, the days grew shorter and the nights longer with each one colder than the last. The gathering clouds had burst and flakes of snow fell gracefully, dancing on tendrils of icy wind with no care in the world, each one different and beautiful. Anya was entranced while reading one of her books. Suddenly the world was not grey and she was no longer in the North, but in the South at her birthplace once again. The towers that rose to nauseating heights stood before her, the stone unburnt and red in color.
From the south, a shadow approached. The leaves on the tree began to bristle, the sky itself darkened. A great shadow approached from the south, she imagined the size of Balerion the Black Dread once more. On the open field surrounding the Kingsroad she could almost see the winged shadow, covering the land. Knights trembled in their helms at the coming sight, the Black Dread had come. The siege was quick and terrible. The wrath of all seven hells was in the dragon's fiery breath. Stone melted and burned. The stroke of the beast's wings caused towers to fall and Harrenhal was forever scarred.
All she had ever known were the scars left behind. She dreamt of seeing the great castle in all its glory but the damage had been done and none cared enough to rebuild the broken and burned towers. Instead, they made up tales of ghosts and curses that spread over the land like a wildfire during a drought.
Benjen had found her sitting on the Eastern wall overlooking the Kingsroad as the rolling hills that had once been a greenish brown grew to be covered in a thin blanket of snow, an old tome opened in her lap. It was one of the books she had saved from Harrenhal, a tedious read to some about the Targaryen dynasty and events that occurred during their reign. She came to a stop midways in the chapter that described the burning of Harrenhal. The young pup had brought a loaf of bread and aged cheese, wordless they shared the snack before supper would be announced.
The boy stole a wayward glance at the words inscribed on the page, catching the name of the castle his sister was originally from. "What was Harrenhal like?" Anya was startled by the question and Benjen's sudden interest, she closed the book and placed it under her cloak. "Truthfully, it is a frightening place," it was no lie, thorny bushes and vines had overtaken part of the castle grounds. In some places, it was not safe to walk as the burnt stone would crumble underfoot. She had witnessed several people fall from great heights as they scaled the burnt stairs of the abandoned towers. It had taken weeks to prepare the grounds for the tourney, flowers were brought from the Reach to cover the dark and dank stone and charred earth.
Benjen raised a brow, he was still a boy; and a boy was curious to know if the whispered words he heard were true. "Are there really ghosts though?" A ridiculing smile crossed her lips as she shook her head, almost laughing. "I haven't seen any, but when the north wind blows there's an awful wailing in one of the towers." Everyone avoided the tower when the wailing could be heard. The sound was dreadful and many said it was the wailing spirit of Harren Hoare. "Half the castle is still ruined from when Balerion burned it," she explained, the history of her old home stayed with her by her readings and teachings from Septa Nyla.
"I don't miss it. I might miss the library from time to time, but I don't miss Harrenhal," she wondered if it would be proper to speak of what she thought of the castle and if was not then her brother would never dare tell. Benjen found it amusing that such a pretty little girl could have such a foul mouth, she was worse than Lyanna. "If that damned place finished burning to the ground I wouldn't shed a tear." The final crumbs of bread fell to the ground, dark wings flapped viciously for the scraps. When the flock of crows dispersed it revealed the small corpse of a red bird who had been too weak to compete. Something about the sight made her want to cry.
The two nearly lost their balance when Ned raced to the gate and wall, the stern expression he had begun wearing as of late was gone. Tears had gathered in his eyes as his two younger siblings descended from their precarious seats above the castle and land. "Mother is sick, she's very sick," the young pup had broken into a run at the words, Anya stood stock still with hot tears streaming down pale and cold cheeks.
Ned had never been the brother that would take Anya into his arms and comfort the girl, that was always what Benjen and Brandon did. Ned was more rigid and quiet, but the young wolf was broken. He was a man of nineteen now, no longer a boy. In a surge of fondness, Eddard Stark brought Anya into his chest. She returned the embrace without hesitation.
Brandon and Benjen stood at Lyarra Stark's bedside. The woman was frail. In a single year, she looked to have aged ten. Deep wrinkles were at the corners of her eyes, the deep brown of her hair had begun greying. She was thin as well, the sickness that had latched onto Lady Stark showed no signs of releasing her. Anya stood in the doorway, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Lyanna and Ned moved past the Whent girl to join their mother.
"Maester Walys does not think she will last through the night," Brandon cast a sorrow filled glance to the old white-haired man who stood in a shadowed corner, keeping silent. He was there to give her the milk of the poppy should she wake. There were no bruises on Lyarra's body, nor cuts and scrapes but she had hurt everywhere. Even her blood caused pain as it flowed through her veins.
Anya had stepped forward then. The words that came from her lips surprised her, "There has to be something, a different brew of tonic, another healer, a prayer." She was crying, she could taste the salt of her tears as she spoke. There has to be something, Anya repeated the words over and over in her mind, there has to be something. The maester ushered the child from the room and tried to calm her tears. She had always loved Shella Whent more than Lord Walter, but the woman was a trained Lady and hardly spoke against her lord husband's treatment of her beloved daughter, her only child. Nine years had been spent with her true mother, those nine years could never compare to the two she had spent as Lyarra Stark's child.
The Starks were not as wealthy in coin as the Whent's. Winterfell was only a fraction of the size of Harrenhal. Thousands resided within the burnt walls, but here there were only a few hundred. Walter Whent had never loved her, only scorned and belittled her for her passions. Rickard Stark had given her Winterfell's library and an iron forged sword. Shella Whent dolled her daughter up in the finest clothing and gave her the best handmaidens a lady could ask for. Lyarra Stark had guided her as a mother should, she was tender and loving, stern and wise. It seemed the curse of Harrenhal had followed her to Winterfell.
Walys took the girl to the godswood and sat down with her beneath the heart tree. It was one of the only times she had come to this part of the castle grounds, having been raised by the Faith of the Seven she always felt out of place with the Old Gods surrounding her. The maester's linked chain of various metals clinked and clanked as he knelt before the old tree and said a silent prayer. All his focus shifted to Anya then, "Lyarra Stark has been sick for a very long time young one." The gentle wolf nodded, Lady Stark had been sicker than usual as of late, but she always recovered in only a couple days.
If the Old Gods would hear her prayers then she would condemn the Seven. The Father had never shown her justice in life, for ten years she suffered Lord Whent's curses. The Mother had never shown mercy to her or her brothers. The Crone had never guided her though anything, only left her to a miserable life in Harrenhal. The Warrior had given her the strength and courage to run away, but that could have been her own will and not a gift from the gods. The Smith had done nothing for her either. She had even prayed to the Stranger. Only the Maiden had blessed her with beauty, but that too could be a curse.
Grey eyes had become stone and steel, her gaze pierced through Maester Walys as he sat next to her. Anya drew in a long breath and looked down at the rippling of the silver water before her. "How do I pray to the Old Gods?" Her voice quavered upon asking the question, hesitance and apprehension gnawed at her for forsaking the Seven. "Just speak, child, lay your heart bare before the tree. They will listen and should it be within their power they will answer," the kindly old man smiled and retreated.
A knock in the night came, it woke her from a dream of knights, maidens, and dragons. Jory Cassel stood outside her door. The boy was older than her but younger than Benjen, loyal and honest. He had been crying, she could tell from his red and puffy eyes. Had it been any other night she would have yelled at him for interrupting her sleep and pushed him off with a playful shove, but even if words between them remained unspoken she knew his reason for waking her. Anya stepped forward, took Jory into her arms and wept for her mother until the dawn broke over the cold land.
A sad song was sung in the Great Hall the morn after Lyarra Stark's passing. Candles were burning in amounts so great the air of the hall warmed without a fire having to be lit in the hearth. Anya wore her best dress. The body of Lyarra Stark was laid upon a stone table, her face was completely at ease. Lord Rickard held his wife's hand and despite his renowned sternness, he grieved for his beloved the way any loving husband would, with tears and choked words of his devotion.
Bannermen arrived and parted during the day, sharing their grief and sympathies for the motherless children and newly widowed Lord of Winterfell. The Umbers came and went, as did the Karstarks, Glovers, and Ryswells.
Regardless of having been accepted into House Stark and seeing Lyarra as her mother for over a year, Anya Whent felt sorely out of place during the occasion. She lingered behind the trueborn Starks, never saying much, her eyes downcast. Jory was the only one to see her pain. As darkness descended on the land her body was moved to the crypts and though she would be expected to follow alongside Lyanna, Anya stood at the crypt's entrance, unable to take a single step further. Jory took her right hand and held it within his until the Starks returned from the tombs of their ancestors.
It was not until Anya readied herself for bed late that night did she realize it was her nameday. Now she was a girl of twelve, almost a woman grown.