Ned was not pleased with the thought of a tournament being thrown in honor of him and the title he had come into upon arriving at King's Landing. The Tourney of the Hand was what the small council had named the event. Anya was not pleased either, it meant she was expected to attend and act a lady when most of her lessons in etiquette had faded over the years. She found herself trying to remember if it was considered rude to pick her teeth with the point of a flat silver knife, or if it was shrewd of a Lady to spit.
A tankard of rhodomel mead was placed in front of the little Lady, both her hands together could hardly wrap around the girth of the container. Sandor Clegane looked at her with a profound curiosity as it was the strongest drink the Laughing Thief offered, he had met few women that drank as much as the Whent girl, even fewer that could drink so much and hardly grow drunk. He accredited the skill to the wolf-blood that Starks were notorious for. She took a long sip and sat the large mug back down on the table. "Are you partaking in the tournament?" the Hound looked at her as if she had lost her mind, but responded with a gruff noise that sounded as if he were about to spit on the very idea.
Over the past four months Anya had learned that the Hound was a man of few words, but with her keen eye for observations she had learned more about him than he believed her to know. She took another long swig of the mead, it was sweet on her tongue but had a certain burn as it slid down her throat and pooled with warmth in her stomach. "Not even a single joust or mêlée?" It was a hard thing to believe that a man with his reputation would turn down the idea of knocking a few knights off their high horse, quite literally at that.
Well into the night and after two tankards of mead, it would have been hard to distinguish Anya from a peasant woman. She was laughing, cursing, and drinking with the best. The tavern was buzzing with laughter at the perverse and crude jokes that were being told. On a whim, Anya stood up on her chair, swaying with a crooked grin. "What does the sign on a defunct brothel say?" There was a pregnant pause as they all waited for the answer.
"Beat it. We're closed!" The Laughing Thief was in an uproar of guffawing and cackling. Some patrons banged their mugs and steins on the tabletops, sloshing out ale and wine alike. Sandor Clegane was trying his damnedest not to laugh but the wine had been especially strong and he found himself laughing along with all the others at her stupid joke.
Her smile was enough to sober him, though, the gods are cruel, he thought. They had fashioned the perfect woman and placed her out of his paws' reach. He drank two more glasses of the wine in hopes that it could erase her from his thoughts for the night.
Only a handful of people remained in the small tavern by the time the two had their share of drinks for the night. Anya was slumped forward on the table, half-awake and mumbling phrases that sounded more like a babe's babbling than a highborn lady. Sandor frowned, "Come on, little rose, let's get you safely back to the Hand's Tower," she groaned and stood on wobbly knees, her head was spinning. Somehow he had grown to find her drunkenness amusing.
In her inebriated state, each step was a mile. Outside the tavern walls, the Hound looked back in annoyance and swiftly turned to Anya, pulling her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. By the time he had reached the Tower of the Hand, the girl was asleep. The Northern men on duty let the two pass without question, it was the fourth time Lady Anya had been brought safely back to the tower by the Hound. He left her in the safety of her own bed, the lingering scent of roses followed him from the room.
"Just archery, Ned! I won't even enter the competition." The tournament would occur in a fortnight, already people were flooding into the capital city for the spectacle. Ned had caught Anya on all four of her attempts to enter the lists to compete, this made the fifth time.
"Then what's the purpose?" Ned was upset with her among other things, gossamer threads were all that was holding the Starks in King's Landing together. Anya lifted her chin, "To show that a woman can be just a good as a man! For fucks sake, Ned, let me do this. Three arrows for three targets. That's all I need."
Eddard Stark pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Even if I forbade participating it wouldn't stop you." She was determined to do something drastic, and would do it with or without his approval. He would rather her enter the lists for the archery contest than try to joust. "Three arrows, three targets," he conceded rising from behind a cluttered desk. "There something I've been meaning to give you since before we left Winterfell."
The object Ned pushed towards her was awkwardly swaddled in a bedsheet. Anya folded back the crème colored linen and nearly began to cry. It was a pale birch bow with a silk bowstring. She lifted the bow with reverence, tracing over the roses and vines that had been engraved into the grip. "It's beautiful." Anya had never seen a more finely crafted weapon in all her days. She set the gift down and turned to her brother, giving him no warning before she was hugging him. He rested his chin on the top of her head and suddenly they were children again at Winterfell.
"Whatever you're planning on doing, win." She smiled, Lord Rickard had been the first to tell her those words.
The tourney's archery contest was held two days before the joust would take place. Most of those who entered the lists had been squires and hedge knights, only a handful bore titles and noble names. Anya and Ned sat in the stands watching, though she was waiting as well. Sansa was seated next to Joffrey and Arya was with the Septa for her lessons despite her pleas to come see the contest.
A hundred had entered the lists and after eight rounds the number of competitors had been halved twice. The Whent girl was growing anxious as she watched arrows fly completely over the targets and others fall short, arrows that landed on target and some that had hit and then fell. Ten contestants became five and then five became three. Anya quelled her nerves with what was left in her wine glass, it's time.
Prince Jalabhar Xho, Ser Balon Swann, and Anguy of the Dornish Marches had come to be the final three competitors. Anya knew this was her chance, she could not let this opportunity pass. Her brother paid no mind when she stood and left the stands. He knew she had hidden her bow and three arrows behind a tree before the contest had even started, he had been the one to suggest it.
"I present your champion..." The sentence died and spectators bristled in their chairs as a cloaked figure appeared on the range. Silence fell over the tourney grounds as the hooded figure nocked and released the first of three arrows. It found the red center with ease while Jalabhar Xho's arrow was two rings away.
Ser Balon Swann's final arrow had just snubbed the top of the innermost circle, but Anya's second arrow found the exact center. There were whispers in the crowd as lords and ladies debated on who the mystery archer was. Lord Eddard Stark knew though nothing of his expression would dispel that knowledge. Joffrey's shrill opposition rang out over most while King Robert sat almost half asleep, letting chaos win over as he had lost interest eight rounds back.
Anya pulled back her hood and the black cloak fell to the dirt revealing her honeyed curls and petite frame that had been clothed in a grey and blue gown. People were shouting, outraged with her presence but she heard none of it. Sansa could hardly believe it when she realized it was her aunt causing the ruckus. Joffrey had made a cruel jape and laughed, but Sandor Clegane stood motionless behind the prince with the beginnings of a smile. A bold little rose.
Her third arrow was nocked, relax your arm, Benjen used to tell her. Breathe. She exhaled. Release. The arrow floated through the air and embedded itself into the painted center target with a dull thump. It took a moment for the onlookers to notice she had split Anguy's, the champion's, arrow in two.
A hush fell over the crowd but erupted into a cacophony of voices. She turned to look at those who were shouting and those who were cheering. Ned had offered her an unreserved smile, a rarity since coming to King's Landing. The flaunted bow she gave before leaving was, by the very definition, mocking.
Ned was waiting for her near the tree where she had hidden her bow. "Have you accomplished what you set out to do?" He asked.
"That and more," she beamed.
"Don't linger here, Anya, go back to keep." He kissed her forehead and nudged her back toward the castle. She wanted to protest despite knowing that he was thinking of her well-being. Anya fled to the keep as Ned had advised her to do. By the time she neared the Hand's Tower, she was out of breath and half-mad with joy. It all faded in an instant.
Petyr Baelish came from behind one of the hall's pillars like he had been waiting for her to pass by. "You've created quite the buzz, Lady Anya," he tried to offer her his arm as a proper lord would have done but she stood rigid, unyielding to his advances.
"I grow weary of small talk, Lord Baelish. What is it that you want?" Her tone was flat, she wasn't sure what would make him realize that she did not like him or his company. Littlefinger took her hand into his, but she was quick to snatch it away from him. Next time you presume to touch me I'll break your wrist. Anya bit her tongue.
They began to walk, though Anya wanted to run, "A little more caution from you is all." The Whent girl could hardly believe that he had spoken to her in such a way. "This is a dangerous place and you're making enemies. If you are not planning on playing the game of thrones then I suggest you tread more lightly." As quick as he had come, Petyr Baelish vanished into the shadows of the Red Keep.
The summer air was stifling and the people she was forced to sit with made it all the worse. Of course, she did not mind being next to the Arya, Sansa, Ned, and even the old Septa from Winterfell, but it was the likes of Littlefinger and other nobles that made her skin crawl. She had never liked Petyr; she only tolerated him on Catelyn's behalf, the rest of the lot was just as treacherous. Taking a short leave between jousts, Anya slipped into the tents and wheelhouses that housed the champions and aspiring knights in search of a glass of Dornish red. She was somewhat relieved that the uproar she had caused had been near forgotten the moment Thoros of Myr had entered the mêlée with a flaming sword.
A profane amount of curses came from an enclosed marquee, she had recognized the voice instantly and shook her head. Two squire boys fumbled out and ran, fear on their young faces. Silent as a mouse, she slipped into the tent, hands clasped in front of her. Anya would have been the image of a perfect lady in the moment if it were not for the sly smile that came to her lips. "What's this?" Had it been anyone but her the Hound would have thrown them from the tent to have peace but there was a silent type of respect between them that words could not accurately describe.
Irritated, Sandor pulled at the strings and buckles of his vambraces, they had been polished for the occasion. Compared to the day prior Anya could see that his hair had been trimmed, as had the scruffy beard, if not for the scar he would have looked rather ordinary next to other knights and competitors. "That little shit wants me to participate for his entertainment," for some reason she struggled to meet his gaze, but reached out and tied the leather strips of the vambrace properly, tucking them into the rough tunic beneath a layer of mail.
Anya took the sage colored sash from her hair and ran her fingers over the soft material, nervously. It was satin, embroidered with pink roses and accented with the smallest of pearls that came from a dress many years ago. "What are you doing with that?" Sandor looked at the ribbon as if it were a snake coiled to strike.
"It's my favour," the Whent girl took a more confident step towards the Hound and stood on the tips of her toes so that she could reach the fastening of his gorget. Carefully she slipped the delicate ribbon beneath the worn leather but paused when he took both her wrists into a single hand and stepped back, looking for some sort of trick to flash across her fair features. "I know what it is, girl. Why are you giving it to me?" The smile that spread across her rose colored lips only confused him and with a gruff noise from the back of his throat he released her hands.
"Just accept the damn thing, Sandor," Anya laughed and tied the ribbon off into a knot, it was a blunt contrast to the black and steel colors of his armor and would go unnoticed by few. She stepped back, admiring her work and turned back in the direction of the stands, turning back with a flush of color on her cheeks when her eyes met the Hound's.
Taking her place next to Sansa and Arya, she folded her hands in her lap and politely engaged in a quick conversation with a lady from Highgarden who had traveled in Ser Loras's company. "Where have you been?" Ned gave her a look, one that told her there was no point in trying to lie of her whereabouts or he would see right through it like so many times in their younger days.
"Getting some fresh air, being surrounded by pompous aristocrats isn't exactly what I call fun anymore, brother," Ned looked at Anya, scolding her almost when the names of the next two competitors were announced. Ser Thomos Frosher of Maidenpool was to ride against the Hound, he was elegantly decorated in deep burgundies and sage greens with silver and bronze armor. An olive tree was painted on a dented shield, the horse he rode was a beautiful silver that was antsy to begin.
Sandor sat astride Stranger with his snarling dog head helm. Sansa gripped her aunt's arm and looked at her with wide eyes as she noticed what all the other ladies were whispering about. A pale green sash on the Hound's armor, someone had dared to give their favour to the disfigured man. "Aunt Anya! You gave the Hound your favour!"
She could feel the eyes of Eddard Stark on her, burning like coals into her skin, but she elected to ignore him and Arya's look of distaste as well. One tilt had passed and neither men were unhorsed, though the lances had shattered against shields, the second run had resulted in the same as the first. On the third tilt, Anya had moved to the edge of her seat, wringing her hands together in anticipation. The beat of iron shoes on loose sand could be felt in every spectators' hearts when both men lowered their lance to strike time stood still or perhaps it only moved very slowly. The Maidenpool knight had not struck Sandor, but the Hound's lance had caught at just the right angle and the young knight tumbled from the saddle but stood unharmed.
The audience had only broken out into mediocre applause as the Hound was announced as a champion. Anya clapped in a polite manner she was taught to do at tournaments, remembering Lord Walter's words girls should be an ornament to the eyes, not an ache in the ear. Yet still an unrefined smile broke out across her face when a squire boy gave Sandor a single red rose to give to the lady of his choosing. For a moment, he seemed to freeze in place on the back of Stranger. Without a word, he rode over to the stands where Anya and her nieces sat and in his own chivalrous way he tossed the rose into Anya's lap and rode away to the sound of her delicate laughter.