"But he who dares not grasp the thorn
Should never crave the rose."
― Anne Brontë
All men must die. All roses must wilt.
There is a streak of wildness behind steel eyes. Two distinctly Stark features, yet they belong to Anya Whent. A Southe...
THE WORK IS hard for one not accustomed to scrubbing pots and floors. Anya Whent is highborn, but now her knees are bruised and oft bloody from cleaning the kitchen floors after feasts, and her once soft hands are calloused over. The Starks treat their workers well —better than Walter Whent treated those who worked the grounds at Harrenhal. But even so, she begins to thin in the cold north and has to keep poking holes in the leather belt around her waist just to keep her wool stockings from falling.
There are many things she misses about living in Harrenhal —the library mostly and the milder weather— but being far away from her father and his harsh treatment is a blessing, no matter how hard she has to work in return for food and shelter.
"Girl!" Anya looks around the kitchen, wondering if the shout is directed at her, but she's the only one still there at the late hour aside from the old hag brewing a medicinal tonic. She waves Anya over with spidery fingers. "Take this to Lord Eddard." The draught will help with his current ailment. The herbal witch presses a warm tankard into her hands, shooing her from the warmth of the kitchen and into the cold Northern night.
Eddard Stark's voice sounds hoarse when he speaks to grant Anya permission to enter his dark chambers. He is eight-and-ten now and still growing —his visit to Winterfell is only a brief sojourn from staying in the Vale with Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon. "My lord," Anya greets, lowering her head as she hands him the foul-colored tonic with whisps of steam still curling into the air. He's paler than usual, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. Even still, his long and solemn face still looks kindly.
"I've seen your face before," Ned says before Anya can leave.
She freezes in place, not daring to lift her gaze from the stone floor. There's a lie on her lips about only being a scullery maid —a lowly servant loyal to House Stark— but Ned is not fooled so easily by her humility and skittishness. He could see the fair and noble features of her face and could tell by the way she greeted him with my lord instead of m'lord. "You were at Harrenhal during the tournament!" He is certain of it, even if he cannot place her name and which house she belongs to.
Anya Whent dares to meet Ned Stark's gaze. His grey eyes are a reflection of his mood, and now they are somewhere between the softness of winter fog and the hardness of steel. She shakes her head, wincing as she prepares a lie. "You are mistaken, my lord," Anya replies, lowering her head once more. "I bid you good rest." Ned means to speak again. To offer consolation and ask what she is doing so far from home, but before he can speak, she is gone, disappearing into the night.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
AS THE NEXT morning breaks over the land, Anya Whent carries out her daily tasks with apprehension. Each glance in her direction seems treacherous, accusing her of some terrible crime. With shaking hands, she scrapes off the burned bits of bacon from an iron pan. Her focus strays, and the knife in her grasp slips, leaving a clean but in her left palm. The pain does not faze her. It is only when a household guard comes into the kitchens wearing dark leathers and heavy furs that she notices the blood.
