"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...
Anya frowns at the mention of Cersei Lannister. She's done her best to avoid the queen since arriving in the capital, knowing well-enough her personality did not mesh well with Cersei's —the difference between northern humility and southern arrogance. "I don't give a damn what I look like, Sandor," she says, voice rough with lingering sleep, "I don't live to impress the bitch queen." He snorts at her boldness. Anya glances at the finished pastries sitting in front of her. "Honey cake?" She offers, holding up the plate of sweets —not daring to give away Sansa's lemon cakes so frivolously.
Sandor takes one of the sweet cakes and finds himself thinking about and remembering his own sister —even if he cannot remember her name. Once, the two of them had been happy children. She was only a year or two younger than him and loved to get under the cooks' feet when the meals were being prepared. One time she made a strawberry tart and was immensely proud it hadn't burned. He'd made some cruel jape when she offered him a slice, and it made her cry. But the septa scolded him, and he apologized, eating half the tart by himself. He didn't believe those memories could exist anymore.
It's yet another thing he hates Anya Whent for.
Anya goes with Sandor without complaint, asking one of the kitchen workers to see the rest of the honey and lemon cakes to the Hand's Tower. It's a long awkward walk to the queen's chambers. She and the Hound have not seen one another often since the Hand's Tourney —she cannot say why, and given how stiffly he walks next to her, Anya half-thinks it must be on purpose.
Cersei looks up from her letter to dip her quill back into the inkpot and finishes the last line of the letter to her father when Sandor announces her arrival in the solar, then retreats to find the prince. She almost overlooks the remnants of Anya Stark's late-night baking escapade —mistaking it first for the northern rags she often wears, but then she realizes. "I hoped we could share lunch in the gardens, but it seems you're" —Cersei rises from her desk to flaunt her crimson and gold samite gown— "preoccupied."
"Forgive my appearance, your grace," Anya says, lowering her gaze to the polished red floor, chirping the words and courtesies just like the septa taught her. "I could not sleep last night, and I enjoy baking." It's a pitiful admission.
"Even I have sleepless nights," Cersei says, surprisingly sympathetic to her plight. "I'm sure Pycelle would give you sweetmilk to help you sleep." Anya nods but knows she will not accept anything the old maester gives her, not with how the Starks have been treated here in the capital. "Perhaps we may lunch on the morrow."
Anya offers a taut smile, and Cersei waves her away, returning her attention to the piece of parchment on the dark wooden desk. "On the morrow then," Anya concedes, knowing she is in no position to refuse.
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ANYA TAKES THE opportunity to spend time with Arya —to make up for having yet to meet her dancing master. She finds the girl in her chambers, practicing the fluid movements of the Water Dance with Needle. Arya freezes, thinking it will be her father or the Septa, but it's only her aunt, and she carries two wooden swords —not unlike the ones she uses to practice with Syrio Forel. "There'll be time to use Needle later" —Anya motions for the girl to follow her— "but now I want to see how you dance." The girl smiles and places Needle back in a trunk, following Anya down to the open-air courtyard.
