Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

proeм

THE STORIES ARE fascinating. Tales of handsome knights and fair ladies, of dragons and bravely fought wars. It always amazes the girl how such simple words can paint elaborate pictures on the open canvas of her mind. The girl, no more than eight years, scurries around Harrenhal's vast library searching for the next read. Even at a young age, she's already lived a hundred lives and died a hundred times —and therein lay the magic of books.

She's a lady, as the old Septa and her mother often remind her when she strays into the courtyard with a wooden sword in hand. Ladies do not partake in such activities, according to their wisdom. So, instead, she devotes endless hours to reading —the closest she'll ever come to engaging in swordfights and slaying dragons.

In two short years, nothing changes. Now she is a girl of ten —more trouble for her poor mother and a continued disappointment to her lord father. Fighting with stable and butcher boys remains far more enticing than any womanly lessons with the old septa. Her lust for adventure is insatiable. Oft times, she sneaks off during the night and climbs the trees just outside of the castle walls —pretending to see the entity of Westeros. Other nights, she takes to the God's Eye Lake, thinking herself a sea creature from a faraway land or that she may stumble upon Caraxes deep in the waters.

Today, she reads about the history of her birthplace having finally found the courage to read an account that belonged in tall tales than in the history of Harrenhal. She turns the page recounting the size and might of Balerion the Black Dread, and Septa calls her name in a shrill voice. "Anya!"

The little lady ignores the calls, continuing to turn page after page, enamored. Balerion was a beast whose shadow could swallow whole towns, with teeth like swords, claws like daggers, and wings so strong and wide that each beat of his wings would be a hurricane on land. Septa Nyla pushes the doors ajar, the wood and iron creaking and groaning.

The good and faithful woman is taken aback by the girl's unkempt appearance —still clad in a nightgown. Anya lays atop blankets next to a dying fire with an open book, her honeyed locks looking more like straw for a bird's nest than soft curls. The soot from the hearth and melted stone stain her skin and clothes. "By the gods, child," Septa Nyla says, shaking her head with a deep frown. "You've only a few hours to prepare for the tourney!"

The daughter of Lord Walter and Shella Whent sits up with crossed arms. "I don't want to go," she protests —dangerous defiance flaring up in her steel-colored eyes.

Septa Nyla sits next to the girl, stroking back her tangled hair. "Your father is hosting this tourney in your honor, child," she tells her. "You must go." Anya Whent was to be the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Anya looks up at the septa with a furrow between her brows. "No, he's not," she refutes, having overheard her father and mother speaking. "He's doing it to boast about our strength to be on better terms with King Aerys." But strength is something House Whent lacks and with each year their hold on the southern Riverlands withers. Harrenhal will never host another strong house, never see a glimpse of its former glory. Too many will look upon Anya Whent and only see a pretty face, not a versed politician in training at only ten years old.

The septa frowns, tipping Anya's chin up. "Whatever the true reason may be, you are the Queen of Love and Beauty."

The girl glances back down at the open book in front of her. "I'd rather read."

Septa Nyla looks at the girl with pity. Anya Whent is a good child, but her soul is far too wild to be tamed. Sighing, the septa picks up the thick tome, marking the page before setting it aside. The little lady knows better than to argue and reluctantly, she trails beside the frail old woman.

Knights, singers, jesters, and lesser houses from around the Seven Kingdom converge upon Harrenhal. Anya watched them arrive day and night for the past week from the towers, only her books were far more interesting than a silly tournament. Books never let her down. Life, however, could and did so often.