Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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WHEN THE NEWS reaches her that Lord Eddard Stark has been attacked in the streets of King's Landing, no one and nothing can stop her from rushing to her brother's side. She dashes up the stairs of the Hand's Tower and throws open the doors to his chambers, and finds Grand Maester Pycelle is there, administering a dose of dreamwine. The old man gives Anya instructions to help tend her brother and then leaves, unwilling to say who had been reckless enough to attack the Hand of the King so brazenly in the daylight hours.

She lingers at his bedside, hoping he will wake but knowing the dreamwine will keep him at ease long into the night. The knocking startles her from a trance, and she goes to the door, feeling her heart drop when she sees who is on the other side. "Alyn?" He bows his head and bids her follow him, for there is someone she must see —one final time. Deep in her heart, Anya already knows. She knows before Alyn opens the door to reveal the Silent Sisters at work —before she even looks upon him. Jory.

"Pardon, sisters," Anya says, fighting back tears until she can mourn alone. The four stop their dutiful work and look at her in the open doorway. "May I have a moment?" She asks, a fading whisper as another crack permeates her composure. The Silent Sisters bow their heads and make for the door as she takes another step into the room and to the stone table where Jory Cassel lay —cold, pale, and unmoving. The blood is washed away from his face and hair, the wound packed and sealed. It twists her heart, seeing him like this, then rips it out wholly. Anya steps to the side of the slab and lays her head on his chest, weeping.

Her shaking fingers trail along his jaw. "Forgive me, Jory," she whispers. "I've been a fool." A fool not to tell him sooner. A fool to think they could ever be happy together in this accursed city. We all should have stayed in Winterfell. "I did not tell you, and now–" Anya's voice fades into a sob —a haunted wail echoing off the red-brick walls and down the halls. She cannot leave it unsaid, even if her sweet Jory will not hear it. "I've always loved you." It hurts to say —hurts to know she will not hear his voice again, see his flushed smile, or feel the warmth of his embrace. It will all fade into memory. And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left when another is gone. "If the gods are good" —her voice cracks— "we will be together again." She can taste the salt of her tears when she places a final kiss upon Jory Cassel's cold and stiff cheek. "One day." But it is only a fool's hope and dream.

The Silent Sisters wait for her to take leave so that they may finish their preparations. Anya leaves with her gaze downcast, shoulders sagging, and heart broken, but there is still one last kindness and act of love she can bestow upon Jory Cassel. "Please," she tells them, "have his bones sent to Winterfell." He deserves to be buried with his grandfather and mother. They nod —a silent vow to see it done.

She goes to her own room after, trying to escape the neverending nightmare from which she cannot wake. Anya crawls into her unmade bed and stares out the open window across Blackwater Bay as the night creeps in and thinks back to the morning hours and how routine it all had been —she took breakfast with Ned and the girls in his solar and had seen them all off for their duties and lessons for the day. Jory kissed her cheek before leaving to accompany Ned to the small council chamber and smiled. There is no knocking, only the slow creaking of her door as it's pushed open —Arya peers in. 

Anya wipes away her tears —the girls do not need to see her like this. She must be strong for them. Arya sits on the edge of the bed and looks down at her bare feet sticking out from her nightdress, sniffling. She's heard the whispers in the Red Keep about what happened, but no one would let her see her father in his current state. Anya sits up and rests her hand on her niece's back when she asks if her father will be all right. "Yes" —she nods— "he will be." There's little uncertainty in her voice. Eddard Stark will not be taken from this world like this. Anya is sure of it. She strokes Arya's knotted hair. "He needs time to rest and heal."