The days were shorter and colder now. A biting wind was always blowing. Howling inside the stone walls and out. Snow fell in thick blankets, suffocating what little greenery remained around the castle.

Against the dark stone and white snow, it was the red leaves of the weirwood tree that demanded the most attention. A display of the strength and resilience of the Old Gods. The Lady of Harrenhal frequented the godswood often. She did not pray, but being near the old tree made her feel connected to her nieces and nephews at Winterfell.

The Hall of a Hundred Hearths had been repaired in full, as had the barracks and the lower halves of the five towers. Stone once ruined by dragonfire could never truly be mended, but the image of the great castle was changing. No one could deny that.

Anya Whent joined both Erac Cleaber and Galbart Glover on the outer ramparts of Harrenhal. Repairing the walls would be the next order of business now that the people had good shelter. That had been her focus since retaking the castle, caring for and protecting those that could not fight. Thus far, Anya had done a fine job of coordinating everything. Ruling came naturally to her.

The Northmen lowered their heads as she came to stand between them. She was a vision to behold in a plain dress of burgundy wool and a large, fur-lined, black cloak. The cold wind had given her skin a pink flush and against her honeyed hair, her lips looked blood red. Anya drew in a long, slow breath of the crisp air. Something about the cold air made her feel more alive.

She glanced up at the Northman in all black. Erac Cleaber was not a member of the Night's Watch, but he wore their colors well. "Will you do something for me, Erac?"

He knelt, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ready and willing to do her bidding. "I am yours to command."

Her gaze trailed back to the white fields that lay between the castle walls and the Kingsroad. "There was a small cottage and barn over the Blackwater. Just over six leagues northwest of the Capital," Anya paused and looked down at the dark stone, voice trailing off, "my mother was there."

She didn't have to finish the request for him to know what she wished for. Erac rose and took her gloved hands into his. The supple deerskin dyed a pale rose color was a sharp contrast the boiled black leather ones that had lasted him many years. "I will find your mother," he promised, "and bring her to Harrenhal."


Sandor Clegane trailed behind Anya Whent as she spoke to one of the Maesters that had come with House Syder from the land surrounding the Saltpans. Alara Syder had been one of the first to seek refuge in the crumbling walls of Harrenhal. She had brought her entire household to the safety that Anya claimed to be able to provide. For now, everyone could claim to be safe.

"We have enough grain to withstand seven moons at this capacity," Arrel informed her, looking down at the scroll he held. Taking inventory was a weekly occurrence now that the snow was becoming thicker.

She wrung her hands together, knowing that a seven month supply would not last, not even if rations were cut. They needed more grain, but that meant more people. "That's not enough," she murmured, hiding the defeat in her voice, as she walked ahead of the small gathering.

Arrel rolled up the scroll and tucked it beneath his arm, waiting for his Ladyship to issue her next command.

Anya turned on her heel, directly addressing the Maester and the two scribes that trailed behind scribbling down notes with pieces of charcoal. She had made up her mind. "Send ravens to all the villages and towns of the Riverlands." Her statement seemed to surprise Maester Arrel. "Tell them they can join us here. If they agree, then ask them to bring their stores to add to our own." Some would refuse, others would come.

"Of course, my lady," Arrel responded, knees dipping down in a quick bow. He turned and began barking commands at the pair of scribes.

The two of them wandered into the godswood, or rather Anya did and Sandor followed. A new dusting of snow and ice coated the ground beneath the great weirwood tree. She laid her hand just above the terrible face and gave a deep sigh.

The Hound looked at her in silent admiration. Her courage was her crown and she wore it like a queen. The others may have not noticed the darkening circles under her eyes or the way her skin paled but he had. "You ain't been sleeping," he announced. He'd wake in the night to find her sitting by the fire, reading or writing letters, sometimes she wasn't even there.

"I can't," she confessed. It was all a façade. The calm and poised lady that held council meetings and comforted those that came into the walls of Harrenhal was actually breaking on the inside. She was torn in two. She had been for quite some time.

Sandor looked at the twisted, grinning face of the tree. Its mouth and eyes leaked sap red as fresh blood. "But you can't go on like this either." He challenged.

Anya knew he was right. "I'm frightened of what is to come," she told him in a voice hardly above a whisper, but that wasn't the only thing driving her insomnia. "And I can hardly stand to know that Sansa, Bran, and Arya are in Winterfell and I'm not there with them."

Sandor took her face into his hands and held her steel gaze. "Then we'll go north."


Erac Cleaber stopped the horse and wagon in the courtyard of the great castle. He looked over his shoulder at the widow and smiled. Anya's resemblance to her mother was uncanny. "Welcome home, m'lady."

Shella Whent stepped down from the covered wagon and looked around at the castle that had once been the seat of her house. Now, because of her daughter and a Dragon Queen, it was the seat of House Whent once more.

It was different then she remembered it. Not as many fallen bricks lay on the ground. There were not as many holes in the roofs, and the thorny veins that had taken over some of the walls had been burned off. It looked like a proper castle, not the monstrosity that had haunted noble houses for generations.

The widow wondered through the courtyard. A smith sharpened swords that had been left in the armory. A group of young children played with wooden swords while a stonemason mixed mortar to repair the wall. In all her years, she had never seen Harrenhal filled with so much life.

Anya stopped in her tracks when she opened the large wooden doors of the Great Hall to check on the wall repairs. Shella Whent's gaze was focused on the towering roof of the Hall of a Hundred Hearths until she saw her daughter standing before the great wooden doors where the sigil of House Whent had been emblazoned.

"Anya?" She asked softly, taking a slow step closer. In her age, it was possible her eyes were playing cruel tricks. The last she had seen of Anya was her back as she rode off at the Hound's side. "Is it truly you?"

Anya Whent bit down on her lip and nodded, the words she'd wanted to say were stuck in her throat. "I thought-" Shella raised were withered hand to her daughter's cheek "-I thought I'd lost you for good this time." Unable to bear the sight of tears gathering in her mother's eyes, Anya surged forward, wrapping her arms around the widow's frail form. She tucked her face into her mother's shoulder.

"Little rose?" Sandor didn't know where she had run off to.

Shella Whent released her daughter and took a step back to look at the behemoth of a man that had brought Anya to her door, bloody and bruised. The Hound had not left her side. The widow looked between her daughter and the burned man. "You've kept her safe."

Sandor's maimed lips twisted into a faint smile and the mass of scar above his eye twitched with laughter. He shook his head. Anya Whent could take care of herself, especially now that she had several men as her sworn shields. "She doesn't need me to keep her safe." Even so, Shella stepped forward and embraced him.

He awkwardly patted her back. Anya stifled the laugh caught in her throat. Shella Whent stepped back and took her daughter's hands. She had numerous questions that needed to answering "You've much to tell me, daughter."

Anya nodded with a faint smile. "Of course, mother."

It was the first time Sandor had heard her story all the way through. Now he understood, or at least he believed he understood her better. He knew a lot about her, but now he knew much more. She is a true survivor, he thought to himself as he took a long swig of mulled wine.

She recalled the night she'd crept through the dark halls with only a small pack containing two dresses and a book on the history of Harrenhal. Then the year that followed when she worked in the kitchens' of Winterfell, scrubbing pots and floors to keep unnoticed. She told her mother of Benjen and Ned, of the bastard son she'd raised as her own, and noblemen she'd sent running back to their keeps. Hearing how she'd bested Galbart Glover in combat to protect her own hand in marriage brought the Hound a tremendous amount of satisfaction.

The light from outside faded, and Anya had just recalled their first encounter with the Brotherhood Without Banners. It was a good stopping point. Anya rose from her fireside seat and excused herself for the night, promising to continue her story on the morrow. The restless days and nights were catching up to her.

Sandor had stood too, intent on following Anya out but then her mother spoke and he remained rooted in place. "She's a rare woman, but I fear I cannot say she got that from me." Shella Whent's laugh held no mirth, only a deep-set sadness that she had not been the one to raise her daughter into the woman she'd become.

Those words were familiar to him, though. The gods have given you a rare woman, Sandor Clegane. He'd known she was a rare woman since he'd first laid eyes on her. "Does she know?" The widow asked.

"Know what?" The Hound rasped, looking over his shoulder.

The widow laughed again. "That you love her, foolish dog."

Sandor snorted. He didn't understand everyone's obsession with whether he'd told Anya that he loved her not. She'd known he had long before he said the words aloud. "Aye. I've told her." Not soon enough, though.

That brought a pleased smile to surface on Shella's wrinkled lips. "I could see it even when you brought her to me the night the Blackwater burned." Sandor had tried to forget that night. He didn't like remembering the sight and smell of his little rose's blood, or how it had stained her golden hair and painted her skin red. "Never would I have imaged that my own little girl would grow to love the Hound."

It wasn't meant to be an insult, but it felt like one. Sandor turned his gaze from the widow and toward the dancing flames in the hearth. "I know I don't deserve her, but-"

Shella Whent held her hand up to stop him then. "There's no need for that talk, Sandor Clegane," she told him. Her daughter deserved someone that would stand by her side and cherish her without trying to change who she was. The widow's smile was hauntingly similar to Anya's. "She loves you and you love her. That makes you worthy of one another. I will gladly call you my son."

A hot bath and been prepared in her and Sandor's shared chambers. Anya lowered herself into the steaming water and gave a relieved sigh. She was not young anymore. The cold now slowed her joints and stiffened her movements, but it was nothing a hot bath couldn't remedy.

She wondered what was keeping Sandor away, knowing it was not in his nature to sit idly and carry a conversation. The heavy wooden doors were thrown open naught a second after the thought had crossed her mind. "Sandor!" Anya exclaimed.

Snow stuck to the dark fur that trimmed his cloak. A few flakes even remained in his hair, though between the fire in the stone hearth and the steam, they quickly melted.

Clasped within his hand was a bundle of roses. The leaves and stems were so dark they appeared black but the petals were cyan. Anya had remembered those roses growing deep in the godswood. She had only ever seen them bloom twice in her childhood. The last time had been when Rhaegar crowned Lyanna instead of Elia.

"Winter roses." She noted, smiling. The Hound sat the bouquet on the drawing table and stepped over to the wooden tub. He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers without a word. Anya took his scarred face in her hands. His skin was like ice and the feel of his hands sent shivers down her spine.

"You're overdressed," she noted. That earned her a low chuckle. When he stepped into the wooden tub, water sloshed out over the sides, soaking through the neighboring rug. He was still clothed, only having removed his boots and cloak.

Anya shook her head, leaning forward the tug off his soaked tunic. Once his hands were freed, they were on her hips, pulling her closer. She kissed the corner of his lips and laid her head on his shoulder. As the water began to cool, Sandor realized she had fallen asleep. Sighing, he hefted her into his arms and wrapped her in a wool blanket before setting her on the bed.

Sandor hung his wet clothes near the fire to dry and retrieved a small roll of paper from his cloak. It was a message that had come by raven. A message from Eastwatch by the Sea. The Wall has fallen was all that had been written. He read over the words again and then tossed the slip of parchment into the hearth, watching as it burned.

The Hound looked over his shoulder and to the bed where Anya lie. The more he thought about the war to come, the more he realized there wouldn't be a happy ending for them or anyone else.