Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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The man stops before her and looks down. "Lord Rickard has asked to see you." And she is in no position to refuse. After speaking to Ned, she knew it was only a matter of time before they would find her out. The only living offspring of Lord Walter and Lady Shella Whent hiding in Winterfell, playing a maid. The walk across the snowy courtyard seems miles in the frigid air. Nothing burns quite like the cold.

House Stark is gathered in the Great Hall of Winterfell with Maester Walys and Ser Rodrik Cassel with his young nephew, Jory. They have all come to see Anya Whent wearing rags and trembling as their gaze falls upon her. Rickard Stark sits next to his wife, Lady Lyarra, and beneath a stern brow and withered grey eyes is the kindness of a father looking upon a lost child. Lyarra takes her lord husband's hand gently and speaks silently with her clear blue eyes.

She wishes they would say something, even laugh at her to chase away the silence. Long silences have always caused her to feel uneasy. The silence of her father still stings. And suddenly, she cannot bear to look upon them any longer. Her shoulders caved in, shaking with her weak sobs.

But Brandon Stark sees a likeness in the young girl, which reminds him of his own sister —a certain wildness that would thrive in the North. He rises from his seat, pulls off his cloak, and wraps it snuggly around Anya's shoulders, kneeling before her. He reaches out, tipping her chin up so she can see his smile. Benjen comes to her side next —he is only three years older than her, thin as a blade with piercing blue eyes. They had played together in the snow one afternoon when her kitchen duties were lightened.

Lyanna turns to her father and mother, speaking to them softly.

Lord Rickard's silent deliberation comes to a close when he rises from his chair. Lyarra follows. It has been months since the tourney at Harrenhal —no word came saying the young Whent girl had gone missing. That and Lyanna's hushed whispers are enough. "Anya," he starts looking down at the poor lost girl, "I will allow you to stay here in Winterfell." She lets out a long, shaky breath. "Though if your father sends word or ventures North, you must return with him." But Anya knows Walter Whent will not come for her —not after wishing she had died in place of her brothers.

"Thank you, Lord Stark," she says, remembering her courtesies. Brandon and Benjen each lay a hand on her shoulder, and Lyanna smiles, thinking it will be good to have another adventurous soul to match hers.

Rickard Stark offers a curt smile, but Lyarra steps forward and offers her hand to Anya. "Follow me, sweet girl." Her kindness reminds Anya of her own mother, but Lyarra is more withered in appearance. Her dark hair is dry and her smile, though warm, speaks of the harshness of living in the North. Anya follows her from the Great Hall and through the open courtyard to the main keep. Winterfell is hewn from granite and situated over an ancient hot spring —warm water runs through the walls and floors, keeping the chill at bay even on cold nights, a comfort Harrenhal lacked.

Lyarra shows the girl a room, furnished simply, and with an array of old clothing that is near her size. "You will sup with us, take lessons from our mentors, and be raised the Northern way," she explains, and to that, Anya has no objections. With no reserve, she wraps her arms around Lyarra's waist, and she is quick to return the embrace, running her hand over Anya's knotted honey locks.