The days were sluggish to pass and the nights were even longer. A month had passed but it felt like a year. Most nights she stayed up to ungodly hours reading or writing letters to Benjen. It had become of droll habit since he had left for the Night's Watch. She would write letter after letter, sealing them with red wax and her own seal of a bat and direwolf. Lord Rickard had given her the seal on a nameday, she couldn't remember which it was exactly anymore. The letters that piled up in her desk's compartments were always bound together with twine and when Benjen came back to Winterfell she would give them to him. He would read one every day. The men of the Night's Watch had no family but Benjen had a sister, and he would not forsake her. She missed him more now than ever.
Anya had nearly stayed up till dawn, with only a few hours of sleep and no duties for the day, she had gone to the library. It wasn't the first time she had fallen asleep in the library, but this time, when she woke again with a book still in her lap, night had fallen.
There was no doubt that her brother would begin to worry soon, even if he knew where she had gone. Anya marked the page of the book, set it aside, and picked up her skirts to rush through the dark halls. She hated the Red Keep at night, everywhere she went there was always eyes watching from the shadows. Tonight was especially horrid as it was raining, the rain made the red stone look like wet blood.
She thought she had taken a wrong turn as nearly all the torches in their sconces had been extinguished from the dampness of the air but the hall ended at the archway that opened up to a courtyard. On the opposite side stood the Hand's Tower.
"Lady Stark," the rasping voice was unmistakable, she turned, hesitant at first. "You dropped this," Sandor Clegane held her hair comb in his open palm. The silver comb engraved with bats and set with yellow sapphires was the last thing she had left of House Whent; it was dwarfed by the size of his hand. Like a timid maiden, she took the ornamental hair piece, her fingers had not even brushed his hand.
"Thank you kindly," there was a stiffness in her voice that had not been there before the incident at the Inn. He regarded her with a strange expression and turned away. Anya was tired of ignoring him, of treating him like a dog. She had never wholly blamed him for what occurred that night at the Inn and it was foolish of her to have acted in such a way over the past month. In haste, she caught up to Sandor and gripped his arm. The action had clearly stupefied him. "The past has already been written, the ink is dry. Let us move on."
The Hound made a gruff noise from the back of his throat and nodded. She remained in the hallway, dim torches licking at the stone walls as he left. Lightning flashed across the sky.
The candles in her room had burned out, the book lay closed and finished on the bed. Anya's bones ached for a walk even at the late hour, she hadn't stretched in an ungodly amount of time, the book was simply too riveting to put down. Donning a linen cloak over her peasant-like kirtle, the Whent girl slipped from her door with a coin purse tucked away under her belt. The Stark men posted around the Hand's Tower had begun dozing off, some had disappeared completely from their positions.
She passed under an arch and into the gardens to see if any of moonflowers were in bloom. Harrenhal's Tower of Ghosts had vines of moonflowers that bloomed white against the charred stone. In a dark and cursed castle, the sight of moonflowers had always managed to make her smile. The rumors of the Red Keep's garden of night flowers was a lie, like many other things in the city of King's Landing. When she saw nothing, Anya turned back and headed to the city streets.
Goldcloaks were posted at what seemed to be every corner and turn, while they would have said nothing to her seeing as she was the Hand's sister, Anya saw it as a welcomed challenge. She had passed five already, none of them had even spared a glance in her direction. Slippered feet made not a single sound on the cobble paths and marble floors and she danced through the shadows unseen by all but one.
Cold steel bit at her neck and a large hand covered her mouth to muffle a scream had there been one. There was no pressure being applied to the knife and no reason she should be frightened, "You shouldn't go wandering about alone at night, little Lady." Her captor took the knife away and placed it back in a small sheath. Anya twisted away from the slackened grip of her captor.
"Sandor Clegane, what a pleasant surprise," her tone may have been derisive even though she spoke truthfully. She may have been the only person in all of Westeros that was glad to see his scarred face. His lips twisted in a mangled fashion to form what appeared to be a smile.
"Has Joffrey finished with you for the day?" He nodded. "Good, take me someplace I can get a decent ale." The Red Keep had a bloody endless supply of wine, some rooms had three platters with a full decanter and empty glasses waiting to be filled, but there wasn't ale, or mead, only wine.
Anya pottered along next to the Hound, two of her strides matched one of his. When they cleared the Keep and entered the streets, he looked down at her, "I won't be hauling you back when you're too drunk to stand."
She was almost offended. "I may be a lady, but I can handle my drink," she rebutted with utter certainty, his laugh was the sound of stones grinding against one another.
One hour and five tankards of mead later, Anya Whent was sprawled out across the bench in defeat, hiccupping. Sandor had howled in laughter when she accepted Balthal Xhamon's dare, he knew she could hold her own when it came to wine but mead was something else entirely. The sailor was impressed that she had even managed to get past three tankards and tossed a small pouch of copper and silver coin to Sandor for safe keeping, she had earned it. She was snoring, an unladylike thing to do that amused the tavern's customers to no end when they learned she was a real Lady, the Hand's sister no less.
The tavern was beginning to clear out, there were only a few hours until the sun would be rising. "Should I call upon one of Lord Stark's men?" Gerrad Hills asked. He was the proprietor of the Laughing Thief tavern, one of the better ones in the city, despite the name.
"Don't bother with it, I'll get her back to her brother." Hills gave a curt nod and returned to taking inventory of the liquor, mead, and ale left after the night. The Hound downed the rest of the wine in his cup and stood. With a grunt, Sandor lifted her off the bench and across his shoulder. Her arms hung limp as did her legs, she did not even stir when he began walking back to the Keep.
At the entrance to the Hand's Tower, three Northmen stood guard and when they noted it was Lady Anya the Hound carried two of them went to draw swords. "What have you done to her, Dog?" It was Jory Cassel who asked.
Sandor Clegane shrugged, readjusting the weight of the woman draped across his shoulder like a sack of grain. "The little Lady fancied a visit to the tavern, she'll have a hell of a headache come the morn." Jory found he had no reason to believe the man was lying, after all, he had known Anya since childhood and had drank with her enough times to know of her nature. "You gonna show me where to put her?" The captain of Lord Eddard Stark's household guards signaled for Sandor to follow him. Dimming embers in the hearth was the only source of light in the room until the wind blew the curtains open and bathed her bedchamber in silver moonlight. The Hound placed Anya on her bed under the watchful eyes of Jory, he even tossed a blanket over her before leaving her room and returning to his own sleeping accommodations.
Two morns later Joffrey was strolling around the castle grounds with the Hound trailing behind him. They had stopped at the armory and training grounds, asides from a lone figure hacking at a straw-stuffed dummy the place was empty. The realm was at peace, there wasn't any need for soldiers to be trained in the city. The crowned prince wondered who the man was that would train rather than drink and fuck. Only as the pair drew closer did he realize it wasn't a man at all, but a wolf.
Sweat made the coarse tunic stick to her back, wisps of hair that had escaped from their intended place framed a face that was red with exertion. Straw arms had been chopped off with what looked to be a single blow to each. She still hadn't taken notice of them. Sandor remembered their sparring match on the Kingsroad, their swords had been at each other's necks but she had concealed a dagger, the edge of which ended up unsettling close to his balls. Now he could watch her move.
It was clear she had been trained by a master-at-arms, squabbling with older brothers would do the trick too. Her movements were fluid, the sword was not a weight in her hand but an extension of her own arm. "Ha! A woman training with a sword," Joffrey settled his hand on his own sword, it was a poor replacement for Lion's Tooth. The Hound wondered if he would be foolish enough to draw it and expect to win against her. Anya spun, putting all her strength into the force of the swing. Her blade cut clean through the straw dummy with ease even though the straw had been solidly packed.
"Even men must practice if they aspire to become great, my prince," she would not forget her courtesies, she was a lady after all. Even if she wished to knock the spoiled boy on his arse for the cruel sneer he wore. Anya's spared a second's glance at Sandor, he seemed to know what she was thinking by the way his mangled lips pulled to a side in a lax smile.
"If you think you're so gifted then participate in the upcoming tourney and prove your worth. Come, Dog," the boy turned and stalked off, his Hound followed. The Whent girl drove her sword into the head of the training dummy as to prevent some regretful action from occurring.
It took half the day for Anya to calm her flaring temper. For once she returned to the Hand's Tower at a decent hour. Rana, Anya's chambermaid, was the same age as Sansa with tanned skin, dark brown hair and doe-like eyes. The girl tended a bath for her lady and continued on with her duties of changing linens and refilling the decanter of wine that sat next to a stack of books.
Anya felt oddly small in the copper tub. She had grown accustomed to the wooden tubs lined with cloth that Winterfell provided, before that, though, there was Harrenhal's bathhouse. Rana came with a tray of oils and soaps, usually, the girl would leave them within Anya's reach and leave as that was her lady's wish but today she washed her lady's hair with a vial of castile soap perfumed with roses.
"Your hair is so lovely, m'lady." The chambermaid must have brushed her hair already a hundred times over, there wasn't a single knot or strand out of place. It would need cutting soon as it already reached her lower back. Anya Whent was not a vain person by any means, but she loved her hair in a way that was selfish. She belonged to the North, even her skin and eyes said that much, but it was her honeyed hair that belonged to the South. That had been the hardest thing to explain to others when claims arose that she wasn't a true Stark.
"Will you let me braid it?" Rana asked. Anya nodded and remained lost in her thoughts. The small vassal houses sworn to the Starks had raised no questions about the young girl that was rumored have appeared in Winterfell. Most had not traveled to the seat of the North in years. The winter in which she was born was especially harsh, most assumed the ravens bearing news of another Stark child had been lost in storms, it was not uncommon. Lords of more notable houses that Lord Rickard trusted were told the truth of her identity and of the reasons she fled, they had sworn to protect her secret and the girl.
The people of Winter Town had just accepted her presence in Winterfell without question. The smallfolk had an unyielding loyalty to Lord Rickard, the girl was there for a reason, and if their Lord was protecting her then they should try as well. After a year no one questioned who she was because they already knew, she was Anya Stark. "All finished, m'lady." Anya was drawn from her thoughts and to her reflection. Rana had braided her hair in a Northern fashion, simple and practical, but honey curls still framed her freckled face.
Four Starks and Septa Mordane had supped together on venison pie that was chunky with carrots, bacon, and mushrooms, and a crust so buttery and flakey it melted on the tongue. While Sansa and Arya had retired for the night with the urging of the Septa, Ned and Anya remained seated at the table. He was looking over ledgers and scrolls, tedious work that only a Hand could bear to do. Anya sipped on a golden vintage wine from the Arbor, rich and fruity. "What's this I hear about a tournament?" She swirled the wine in its long-stemmed crystal glass.
"There's not going to be one," came to quick and curt reply, she scowled and took a long sip of wine but Ned felt her heated gaze, "and if there is you will not be competing." She cursed him for being able to read her so easily.
Anya wondered if Lord Eddard had ever realized that it was Lyanna who had competed in the Tourney at Harrenhal all those years ago. If he had managed to piece together the clues that it was his own sister who had bested several acclaimed knights. Lyanna had done it all under the guise as the Knight of the Laughing Tree. There would be no disguise for Anya should she try to compete, there would be no way her absence at her brother's own tournament would go unnoticed, finding armor was another challenge. I'll have armor forged to fit me, a war is coming.
Ned looked up from his papers, Anya's silence seemed odd, he expected her to protest and demand to compete, but she sat there across from him not speaking with a blank expression. She was the best archer he knew, but women not did compete in tourneys.
"Care to tell me anything about those scrolls?" When she was young political matters were always of interest but she was barred from many of Lord Walter's council meetings and forced to learn the ways of a proper lady. From the day she had been brought into the Stark household, they had always welcomed her opinions and valued her insight. Perhaps she would make an able Hand for a different king.
Ned pinched the bridge of his nose and for only a second the deep-set wrinkles in his brow vanished. "The crown's in debt to Tywin Lannister, yet Littlefinger seems to have the ability to make coin just appear." He rolled one scroll up and reached for another. Anya knew of the great wealth Casterly Rock held, but if rumors could be believed the last bit of gold had been plucked from the mines. If the Lannister's source of wealth had gone dry then perhaps in time their power would disintegrate, it was a foolish thing to hope for. Littlefinger was another case entirely, she had spoken to him thrice now and each time she loathed him a little more.
The little Lady took another sip of Arbor vintage, "All I have to say on the matter is let time run its course and don't trust Petyr Baelish." The Hand of the King gave a huff of indignation laced with exhaustion. The hour had grown late. "I'll leave you to it," Anya finished her wine and rounded the table to where her brother sat. She leaned down and kissed his temple, "Goodnight, Ned."