Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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"GOOD. VERY GOOD." Benjen praises his sister's form with the bow. Even Lyanna is impressed with how far Anya's skills have progressed in such a short amount of time. She relaxes her arm and looks at the coiled rope target —a red circle painted in the center. Scattered about the bullseye are several arrows, all just shy of hitting their mark. "Show me your form again." Benjen crosses his arms and takes a step back as Anya lifts the bow and pulls back on the string, arrow nocked.

"Relax your arm a little." She does as her brother says, her hand going lax on the wooden curve of the bow. "Breathe in." He almost laughs at the way Anya's eyes narrow into slits, focused on the center of the target and filled with determination. She draws in a large gulp of air. "Release." The arrow lingers in the cold air for only a second before hitting the target with a dull thud.

Anya looks on in shock, seeing where her arrow hit —the dead center of the target. Her smile is not like that of a Northern lady but of one from the South, filled with brightness and warmth to chase away the chill in the air. Benjen clasps her shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze. "You'll soon be a better shot than me, sister." She laughs at that, not believing she can ever grow to be a better archer to swordsman than her brothers. Benjen takes the bow from her hands and nudges her back to the Great Hall. It is time for her and Lyanna's womanly lessons. "Run along," he says, "you know Marna will be upset if you're late."

Lord Rickard looks upon his children, training with swords and bows alike. He's watched Anya Whent grow before his eyes, and despite the sternness of his features and reputation, there is a soft spot in his heart for the girl. There is a streak of wildness in the girl. Maester Walys counseled in the first days after having allowed the girl to stay. Her eyes are those of a true Northerner. His words prove true. Anya thrives in the North. She is a Stark now, if not by blood, then by name.

"She's excelling with archery and steadily improving with a sword," Brandon comments. He stands next to his father, looking over the inner courtyard and watching as Anya and Lyanna scurry away to the Great Hall for their lessons.

"She is," Lord Rickard agrees. Anya Whent has shown all the fierceness of a Stark, yet now that she is coming of age, he wonders how much longer the truth can remain hidden. When a year passed, and no news came from House Whent about Anya's absence, Rickard gave her his name —but a name cannot hide her Southron features. No Stark had been born with honey hair and kissed by the sun. Yet she is his daughter. Soon he will have another by marriage. Catelyn Tully of Riverrun is to be married to his eldest son within two moons. A good match between two strong houses. "Have you written Catelyn?"

Brandon stiffens at the mention of his betrothed. "Yes," he answers, "I sent a raven just two days ago." The Tully girl was only twelve when the arrangement was made, and the thought of having a bride so young turns his stomach. Regardless, he knows it is a smart match, and his father assures him he will grow to love her when she gives him sons and daughters. But on the subject of marriages, his mind strays. "Do you still intend for Lyanna to marry Robert?"

Lord Rickard's expression sours with the question. "The realm will prosper from the joining of our houses," he replies with curt formality. But Lyanna will not be tamed so easily. Wolves do not dance with stags.