She parried the stroke of his blade and spun away as the second blow was coming to land. The broadsword was heavy in her hand, a harsh reminder that she had not held it since Ned's death. He was a quick opponent, but she was quicker and smaller. Anya's chest heaved with exertion and sweat made the gauzy tunic clung to her.
Bronn's blade nicked her forearm and blood stained a small patch of her sleeve, but he had earned a bloody nose when it had come to a temporary stalemate. It was a harsh affair with no elegance. When she and Benjen had trained with the sword their sparring matches had been akin to a well-rehearsed dance, a real fight was seldom so graceful.
The match came to a close with a silent agreement between both combatants. Bronn sheathed his sword and nodded while regaining his breath, "You fight good for a woman," the accolade must have pained him to say.
"That wasn't a very endearing compliment, Bronn," Anya slipped her blade back into its sheath and sat under the shade of an oak tree, pulling out her own canteen of water, "Just 'you fight good' would have sufficed."
Bronn turned up a wineskin, half laughing. The sellsword wasn't the best company but he was far better than the lot of King's Landing. "Ever went at it with him?" She followed his gaze to where Sandor stood stoically against a wall while the king and the master-at-arms were training with a sword.
She nodded, "Once, when we were traveling south from Winterfell," Bronn looked at her curiously so she continued, "He held back, but I didn't. Had a knife at his balls before it was over." Anya untied the hardened leather vambrace and pulled her sleeve up. The cut had already scabbed over but still she poured tepid water to wash away the blood that had dried.
Anya picked up her bow, she hadn't the heart to even look at the finely crafted weapon that Ned had given her until now. The fletching of the arrows had been turkey feathers dyed blue, she drew one from the bundle, nocked, aimed, and released at a speed even the most trained archers would have trouble matching. It hung in the air for half a second before making a thudding sound as it found the center of the target. Bronn found himself thoroughly impressed with her archery skills.
The target's center was densely packed with arrows and that only sparked a string of improvised and risky targets. First it had been an apple thrown into the air, next was an apple Bronn held in his hand. A fat pigeon that had roosted on a stone bench with a fat worm grasped with its toes. Poor Podrick Payne was even drug into the fiasco as well, he stood trembling against a stone wall with an apple balanced on his head. He had squeezed his eyes shut when she drew back the string of her bow and when he opened his eyes again and arrow had pinned the apple into the mortar of the wall. She and Bronn and both laughed at the way his shoulder's slumped in relief.
There was only one arrow left and no apples. Anya looked around the training yard but her eyes settled on Sandor who stood stock still while Joffrey entertained himself with his crossbow. She only thought about what she was about to do for a second before she had released the last arrow. It embedded in the roundhouse wall, not even an inch from Sandor's left ear.
She leaned against the longbow in triumph. He glared at her from across the way, but when she smiled he had somehow already forgotten the arrow next to his head.
Anya shifted within the copper tub and Rana rubbed a sponge and castile cake of soap over her back. Soon she would smell like roses again, a pleasant scent compared to the acrid smell she had taken on earlier in the day while sparring and the ache in her muscles would fade until morning. "Why do you do that?" Sansa implored looking past her and to the muddy black cloak that hung over a sconce. The garment was far too big to belong to her aunt. Sansa had learned the art of doleful silence and Anya had nearly forgotten she was there.
The Whent girl looked over her shoulder at her niece who sat at her corner table sipping watered wine, dressed like a proper lady with her auburn hair pulled back away from her face, "Do what?" Anya asked in return.
"Fight. You're a lady," it was an exasperated observation, Sansa looked on the verge of tears yet Anya was clueless on how to offer the girl any consolation. She wanted her mother, but Anya could never fill that part of her life.
"I'm hardly a proper one," just as Anya started to laugh at herself Rana poured a pitcher of water over her head to rinse the soap from long honeyed locks. Bitter suds filled her mouth. She dried quickly and wrapped herself in a pale blue dressing down and sat across from Sansa. "I could teach you, Sansa. House Stark has never shamed women for becoming warriors. Your Aunt Lyanna wielded a sword and a needle." Though she was far more proficient with a sword, Sansa looked down at her uncalloused hands, not wishing to hear what her aunt was saying. She wanted it to be like in the poems and songs, with fair maidens and gallant knights. "The key to it all is maintaining a balance. I do what is expected and required of me due to the family I was born into, yet I do not let it hinder me from partaking in swordplay or archery."
Sansa shook her head, "I don't want to fight. I want to be a proper lady, like my lady mother." She is her mother's daughter. Anya turned to her vanity and picked up the mother of pearl comb that her mother had given her, but her hand was shaking. Rana gently took the comb from her lady's hand and began running it through the soft honey strands.
Once Anya was dressed in a tunic and breeches she returned to where Sansa sat, flipping through a book that had been brought from Winterfell. She looked up at her aunt and closed the book before coming to the history of the Wall.
"A white wolf, that was Jory's sigil," Sansa commented. Anya looked down at the deep grey tunic she wore, on the breast was an embroidered wolf head of white and silver thread. One that she had personally made over the course of weeks, her fingers had been pricked by the needle so many times that by the final stitches they no longer bled. She had given it to Jory on his name day, which one she could not recall, but that was a lifetime ago. Winterfell was a lifetime ago.
The girl absentmindedly picked at her dragonfly pendant, "Father always said he fancied you."
A wistful smile crossed Anya's face, "Did he? Benjen told me the same thing once." Only I was too stubborn to admit that I fancied him as well.
"You loved him didn't you?" Sansa's question was meek. Yes, but love makes you weak, Anya took a long sip of wine, but it wasn't strong enough to make her forget the memories and emotions that seized her heart and mind, "I don't know what I felt." She had grown so good at lying Sansa believed her with a moment's hesitation, for a brief moment she even believed that herself. If I would have married it would've been him. Both Sansa and Anya lapsed into a silence long silence fueled by memories and longing.
They supped on a thick soup of barley and venison, with brown oat bread and a salad of sweetgrass, spinach, and plums, sprinkled with crushed walnuts. Then came dessert, peaches, and honey with thick cream, it had become one of Sansa's favorites in the capital. The trio had only just helped themselves to a spoon full of peaches and a dollop of sweet cream when the knock came. Anya summoned in the person who had knocked on her chamber door and interrupted her and Sansa's meal, obediently, Rana let the gold cloak in. The hair on the back of the Whent girl's neck stood at attention as unease overtook her. "A raven's been received from Winterfell," he announced.
"What news did it bring?" Anya beseeched.
"Theon Greyjoy has taken the castle for the Ironborn," there was no form of sympathy in his voice or expression. Anya remained poised for Sansa's sake upon hearing the news. "There was nothing noted in the letter about Lady Sansa's brothers," the gold cloak left without another word and hysteria overtook her niece.
"Why would he do that?" She wailed, Theon had been raised like a Stark, he was as close to Robb as Jon was. He was a brother, regardless of whether Sansa had been particularly distant with him as of late. Anya frowned, betrayal was the most hurtful type of wound. "What about Bran and Rickon?"
"He wouldn't dare hurt them, Sansa, they're brothers to him," despite her attempt of consolation Sansa still cried, Anya supposed she couldn't blame her.
"We should've never left. We should never have come here. Father would still be alive, Bran and Rickon too." Jory too, and all the loyal Northmen that Ned had brought with him, most of their remains never even made it back to their families. The Whent girl quickly wiped away the stray tears that slid down her cheeks and stung the long scab that remained from the bread riot.
Anya placed her hands on the sides of Sansa's neck and knelt before her, "Bran and Rickon are alive," there was not a drop of uncertainty in her tone or eyes, Sansa nodded but still found it difficult to believe. "They're alive, Sansa." She pulled the young girl up and into her arms, a poor substitute for a mother's embrace. Not for the first time since tragedy struck them Sansa stayed in her aunt's chambers for the night, hoping and praying that Robb would come and save them. The sweet peaches had been left untouched.
She was improper for company, wearing only her bedgown, yet she opened the door to her chamber's regardless. A young squire that looked to about Pod's age stood stock straight on the other side with a box clasped within his hands. He thrust the package forward, lowering his head to conceal the bright red color that had found its way onto his round cheeks.
"What is this?" she inquired.
"A gift," the squire boy answered taking a step back.
Anya's brows settled in a deep furrow, "From who?"
The boy had a glint of mischief in his eyes when he looked back at her and replied, "If you have to ask then you already know." Anya took the oblong box without another question, thanked the squire who had delivered it to her and quickly shut the door.
The Whent girl sat the box down on her bed and looked at it for several minutes, guessing as to what could have been inside and who would have sent it. She slipped off the poorly tied twine and flipped open the lid to reveal a dagger and sheath. It was small and incredibly light, the perfect size for her to throw if needed. The hilt was gold and iron, the pommel encrusted with smoky colored gems that reminded her of the sky before a winter storm. A finely crafted weapon to be given to a hostage.
Rana came soon after the squire had left, the queen had requested her presence for brunch. With each passing day the Lannister's tried to strip the North from her, new dresses mimicked the southern style and colors. She missed the weight of the woolen dresses, dresses in samite and Myrish lace made her feel vulnerable. The blue of the gown was lighter than the color of a clear sky, trimmed with silver embroidery, and delicate white inserts.
She walked the marbled halls in a solemn silence, looking more like a broken doll than a gentle wolf. The queen was in her solar, sipping on a goblet of fresh blood orange juice. Anya took the empty seat across from the queen and took a small bite of the pastry that was placed on her plate.
"That'll leave a scar," Cersei noted, looking at the cut that spanned from beneath her eye to her jaw, it had scabbed over since the riot, but even the tenderest of touches could set it to bleeding again. Only yesterday morning she woke with her cheek suck to her bedsheets, it bled even more when the scab was ripped off again. A week had passed since chaos erupted in the streets yet it seemed like the mob had had her only just yesterday.
Anya touched her cheek and the scab, "I thought the same, your grace." A queen of love and beauty no more, had been born with the disfigurement no one would have ever given Anya Whent a second glance. Since youth beauty had always been an ally, now it had forsaken her.
When their strained conversation came to a close and the table was cleared of dishes, the Whent girl swallowed her stubbornness and pride, "May I beg leave of the keep for one night? There is an alcove by the water's edge beneath the keep that I wish to visit." Using secret tunnels and doors to visit the tavern at indecent hours of the night was easy, moving through the gardens and by the dock would prove to be impossible with the number of guards stationed along the walls waiting for Stannis.
Cersei's expression became pensive, a mixture of pity and satisfaction, "I cannot let you go alone. It would be a pity if you tried to escape," she queen took a generous slip of a vintage from the Reach to hide the smirk that grew across her lips, "Perhaps I'll even give you a guard you're fond of."
Anya lowered her head in thanks and choked up a forced formality, "Your grace is too kind."
She spent the rest of the day in the library, searching over old texts about the stars and moon. A handful of books detailed how to read the stars and predict someone's fortune, it was a type of magic that the Seven frowned upon, but the Old Gods had been rooted in deep magic, with the Children of the Forest and Giants, and all the other creatures that had been lost in the years. Night soon came and so did her simple meal with Sansa. The little bird at little to say, Cersei was digging her claws into her deeper and deeper with each passing day and the news of Theon's betrayal had taken its toll. Not even the premise of having lemon cakes could bring lighten her spirits.
Anya traded her formal attire for a simple blue shift, her hair was freed from the curled and coiffed style that Rana had fashioned that morning. Not for the first time she found herself sitting in the tower windowsill looking over what she could see of the city and Blackwater Bay.
It should have not shocked her when she opened her bedchamber door and saw Sandor Clegane on the other side, but it did. Anya quickly fetched a cloak and silently led the Hound through the castle and gardens down to the water's edge.
The moon reflected off the Narrow Sea and the stars could be seen in the heavens above and with the same clarity on the rippling water. The sea filled her with longing, though for what she wasn't sure. Waves rolled ashore and broke into white foam around her ankles, but the cool kiss of the water wasn't enough. She waded out into knee deep water and turned her gaze to the heavens.
Tonight there was no stars, only the moon. If no stars are visible it is an omen of darkness and death, she desperately hoped the books were wrong."What are you doing?" The question was gruff and spoken in haste.
Anya thought on her response, not truly knowing what had caused her sudden desire to come here again. She searched the sky looking for an answer, "watching," came her quiet response.
"For what?" His voice was closer, this time, Anya turned her back to the sea and stepped towards Sandor.
She shrugged and avoided his gaze, "A sign, something, anything." He didn't seem to realize what he was doing until his fingertips ghosted over her cheek, following the scabbed over cut. Anya closed her eyes and relinquished herself to the touch, his name slipped from her lips like hushed prayer, but as soon as she spoke he recoiled and she regretted saying anything at all.
When Anya turned back to face the dark abyss she closed her eyes and tried to remember what it felt like to have Jory's lips against her own, only she couldn't quite remember because now she imagined rougher lips, scarred lips, his lips. A gust of cool air sent shivers crawling down her spine and her cheek burned with the aftermath of the tender touch. A falling star streaked across the dark sky, but she had not seen it.