"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...
Catelyn is in a frenzy, checking on the workers preparing the Great Hall for feasts and merriments and reminding chambermaids who they were to serve. The largest of the chandeliers is lowered to the flagstone floor, the melted candles being replaced. It reminds Catelyn to tell them to stock Lord Tyrion's room with extra candles for his reading habits. The Lady of Winterfell steps over a small cask of wine when she spots Anya in the hall, plucking an apple from one of the arrangements on the table.
"Anya!" Catelyn calls, waving her over. "Will make sure Arya finishes her dress before nightfall?"
"Of course," she nods.
Arya's chambers are empty, and lying across the end of the girl's bed is a half-finished dress. She shakes her head, thinking she knows where to find the girl. Tracing a path to the godswood, Anya stops when a pebble from the Broken Tower lands on her shoulder. Bran hides his face against the wall, thinking it is his lady mother at first, but it's only his aunt. "Don't let your mother catch you doing that, Brandon," she chides, looking up at the boy. He isn't supposed to be climbing —it's dangerous. But little Bran smiles, reaching for his next hand and foothold.
The rustle of leaves and branches in the still air gives her away. Anya waits in the godswood for the girl to drop down from branch to branch and finally to the ground. Nymeria —the orphaned direwolf pup Arya took for herself— looks up into the tree too and sits at Anya's heels. "Arya!" She scolds, noticing the twigs and leaves stuck in the girl's hair, the dirt on her face, and the small tear in the hem of her dress. "You're supposed to be sewing."
The girl looks at the ground, her cheeks turning the color of shame. "But I don't want to sew," Arya says, nigh pouting —Nymeria whines her agreement.
Anya shakes her head, remembering the times she said the same words, and kneels down in front of the girl. "Nor did I when I was your age," she starts, lifting her hand to wipe away the smudge of dirt on Arya's cheek. "But I learned regardless and still managed to find time to get into fights." Arya's frown turns to a wide smile —she always liked hearing of Anya's childhood adventures. Much to Catelyn's chagrin, Arya looks up to her aunt, holding her in the highest esteem, just as she does the brave warrior queens in stories. There is a duality to Anya Stark that Arya has not mastered yet —harmony between the streak of wildness in her eyes and her training as a lady. "Come," Anya says, patting Nymeria's head before rising and motioning Arya along. "If we both work on your dress, we can finish it before dinner."
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THE STARKS GATHER in the courtyard of Winterfell as the first of the royal party arrives. Prince Joffrey rides at the head, his uncle and another member of the Kingsguard not far behind —but it's a man wearing a snarling hound's head helm and clad in soot grey leather astride a great black beast that draws Anya's attention. He pushes the mouth of the helm open, revealing the maimed half of his burned face. For a fleeting moment, Anya forgets it's rude to stare, but as her attention returns to the rest of the royal party, the Hound sets his dark and curious eyes on her.
