"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...
"I don't like when people call him that," Myrcella says, barely a whisper. As if she's telling Anya a secret or making an admission one should be ashamed of. Anya's inclined to agree. The princess looks up at Anya with the same jade eyes as her mother. "He's always been nice to me," she tells Anya. "I used to call him Sanda." An ache seizes Anya Stark's heart, though she cannot explain why. But her trance is broken by the princess's question. "Will we meet again next week?"
Anya nods. "Of course," she tells the princess, "now run along to your lessons."
Rất tiếc! Hình ảnh này không tuân theo hướng dẫn nội dung. Để tiếp tục đăng tải, vui lòng xóa hoặc tải lên một hình ảnh khác.
NIGHT SETTLES, AND Anya dares test the limits of the queen regent's benevolence. She's let herself remain trapped in the walls of the Red Keep for weeks —as any good prisoner would do, but now she's desperate to get outside the castle walls, if only for a few hours. "And where does a proper lady go at this hour of the night?" Anya stops and curses herself for not raising the hood of her cloak. Bronn's facing the red stone wall of the battlements, shaking off the last drops of piss before righting himself.
She shrugs. "Would you believe me if I said to pray?" The sellsword snorts, his lips twisting into a crooked smile. "The Laughing Thief. One of the best places to get a drink in this shithole." Their exchange does not last much longer. When they part, Bronn half-bows with a flourish before letting her continue on her way. If he means to report her whereabouts to anyone, he's in no haste to do so, but Anya thinks they are something akin to friends now, given how often she and Tyrion sup together.
Anya picks up her skirts and slips behind the tower walls and into one of the secret passages built under Maegor the Cruel. Her lantern is dim, the flame flickering weakly in the damp air. Gravel crunches under her slippered feet and rats scamper away from the light as water drips from the low, rough ceiling. The only thing that makes it worse is the smell.
She doesn't see him, but she feels the hard wall of his chest when they collide in the dark. Her lantern falls, the flame extinguishing. Sandor seizes her arms to stop her from falling backward. He smells of wine and the heavy, cheap perfume of a whore. The Hound stares at her in the lowlight —he'd taken a whore with the same color hair, only hers hadn't shone as brightly as Anya Stark's. "Sandor." Anya winces as the grip on her arms tighten, but she won't look away from him.
He hates her for being about to look him in the eyes without fear or disgust. He hates her for many things —like how his chest tightens whenever she smiles. "You shouldn't leave the Keep," he rasps —Cersei Lannister would be glad to have a reason to take her pretty head.
The brown of his eyes is nearly black in the tunnel, but she can see his gaze flitting over her countenance before settling on her parted lips. For a fleeting moment, she thinks he means to kiss her in his drunkenness —and perhaps more frightening is that Anya half-wishes he would. But he doesn't move, doesn't say anything else. "Is that all you have to say?" The evenness of her question unnerves him, and he pushes her aside, continuing on his way.
