THE WORK IS hard for one not accustomed to scrubbing pots and floors. Anya Whent is highborn, but now her knees are bruised and oft bloody from cleaning the kitchen floors after feasts, and her once soft hands are calloused over. The Starks treat their workers well —better than Walter Whent treated those who worked the grounds at Harrenhal. But even so, she begins to thin in the cold north and has to keep poking holes in the leather belt around her waist just to keep her wool stockings from falling.
There are many things she misses about living in Harrenhal —the library mostly and the milder weather— but being far away from her father and his harsh treatment is a blessing, no matter how hard she has to work in return for food and shelter.
"Girl!" Anya looks around the kitchen, wondering if the shout is directed at her, but she's the only one still there at the late hour aside from the old hag brewing a medicinal tonic. She waves Anya over with spidery fingers. "Take this to Lord Eddard." The draught will help with his current ailment. The herbal witch presses a warm tankard into her hands, shooing her from the warmth of the kitchen and into the cold Northern night.
Eddard Stark's voice sounds hoarse when he speaks to grant Anya permission to enter his dark chambers. He is eight-and-ten now and still growing —his visit to Winterfell is only a brief sojourn from staying in the Vale with Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon. "My lord," Anya greets, lowering her head as she hands him the foul-colored tonic with whisps of steam still curling into the air. He's paler than usual, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. Even still, his long and solemn face still looks kindly.
"I've seen your face before," Ned says before Anya can leave.
She freezes in place, not daring to lift her gaze from the stone floor. There's a lie on her lips about only being a scullery maid —a lowly servant loyal to House Stark— but Ned is not fooled so easily by her humility and skittishness. He could see the fair and noble features of her face and could tell by the way she greeted him with my lord instead of m'lord. "You were at Harrenhal during the tournament!" He is certain of it, even if he cannot place her name and which house she belongs to.
Anya Whent dares to meet Ned Stark's gaze. His grey eyes are a reflection of his mood, and now they are somewhere between the softness of winter fog and the hardness of steel. She shakes her head, wincing as she prepares a lie. "You are mistaken, my lord," Anya replies, lowering her head once more. "I bid you good rest." Ned means to speak again. To offer consolation and ask what she is doing so far from home, but before he can speak, she is gone, disappearing into the night.
AS THE NEXT morning breaks over the land, Anya Whent carries out her daily tasks with apprehension. Each glance in her direction seems treacherous, accusing her of some terrible crime. With shaking hands, she scrapes off the burned bits of bacon from an iron pan. Her focus strays, and the knife in her grasp slips, leaving a clean but in her left palm. The pain does not faze her. It is only when a household guard comes into the kitchens wearing dark leathers and heavy furs that she notices the blood.
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.
WINTER APPROACHES. THE days grow shorter and the nights longer, each one colder than the last. The gathering clouds burst and flakes of snow fall gracefully from the grey sky, dancing on tendrils of icy wind without care. Anya sits on top of the ramparts, an open book in her lap. Suddenly the world is not grey and she is no longer in the North, but back in her birthplace once again, and the towers rise to nauseating heights —the reddish stone unburnt.
From the south, a shadow approached. The leaves on the tree began to bristle, and the sky itself darkened. She imagines the size of Balerion the Black Dread once more. On the open field surrounding the Kingsroad, she can almost see the winged shadow covering the land. Knights trembled in their helms at the sight. The Black Dread had come. The siege was quick and terrible. The wrath of all seven hells was in the dragon's fiery breath. Stone melted and burned. The stroke of the beast's wings caused towers to fall, and Harrenhal was forever scarred.
All she has ever known are the scars left behind, but she could still dream about the great castle in all its glory. No one cared enough to rebuild the broken and burned towers. Instead, they make up tales of ghosts and curses, spreading them across the continent like wildfire during a drought. But Anya Whent could still dream and hope.
Benjen finds her overlooking the Kingsroad and the rolling hills now blanketed with a thin layer of snow. He joins her, glancing at the book —a tedious read about the Targaryen dynasty and all the events which occurred during their reign. She stops midways in the chapter describing the burning of Harrenhal. Benjen brings a loaf of bread and hard cheese, silently offering the snack to Anya. He steals another glance at the words on the page of her book catching a few familiar names and a drawing of a great dragon. "What was Harrenhal like?" He asks. Benjen had not liked the castle when they visited for the tourney —it was too large, too cold.
She closes her book. "It was frightening," Anya admits. Thorny bushes and vines have overtaken part of the castle grounds, and in some places, it is not safe to walk for the crumbling stone underfoot. She watched several people fall from great heights as they scaled the burnt stairs of the abandoned towers —their screams still haunt her dreams. It took weeks to prepare the grounds for the tournament —flowers were carted in from The Reach to cover the dark stone and charred earth.
Benjen raises a brow, curious to know if the whispered words are true. "Are there really ghosts?"
"I never saw any," Anya tells him, "but when the wind blew there was a wailing in one of the towers." Everyone always avoided the towers when the wind blew. The wailing, creaking, and groaning was dreadful and many said it was the spirit of Harren Hoare. "I don't miss it." There are times when she misses the library and having the God's Eye Lake so near, but Winterfell is her home now —it is more a home than Harrenhal had ever been. She thinks she would be happy to see the castle burn and yet another part of her longs to one day see her birthright become more than just a scarred memory of Aegon's Conquest.
He tears the last remaining pieces of bread and tosses them and the crumbs to the ground. It does not take long for dark wings to descend —ravenous crows and ravens. When the flock disperses, it reveals the corpse of a small red bird, too weak to compete against the others. Something about the sight makes her want to cry.
Both she and Benjen nearly lose their balance when Lyanna races to the gate with tears gathering in her eyes. They are quick to join her in the courtyard. "Mother is sick," she announces, "she's very sick." Benjen breaks into a run, racing to his mother's chambers, but Anya stands rooted in place with tears slipping down her pale and cold cheeks. Lyanna's bottom lip trembles as she wraps her arms around Anya, bringing her close to her chest. She wants to say it will be all right, but it feels wrong to lie.
BRANDON AND BENJEN stand at Lyarra's bedside. She is frail. In a single year, she looks to have aged ten. Deep wrinkles mark the corner of her eyes and the deep brown of her hair turns to silver. She is thin too —the sickness that latched onto Lady Stark shows no signs of releasing her. Anya lingers in the doorway, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Lyanna squeezes her sister's shoulder, then steps to join her brothers.
"Maester Walys does not think she will last through the night," Brandon utters, casting a sorrow-filled glance to the old white-haired man standing in a shadowed corner, keeping silent. He is there to administer milk of the poppy should Lyarra wake —something to dull the pain of her aching bones and blood, and quell the fever's delirium. Anya dares to take another step into the room and can taste the salt of her tears. There has to be something, she tells herself, even if it is false hope. There has to be something —a different tonic, another healer, a prayer to the Mother or Crone.
The maester leaves his corner and ushers Anya from the room, trying to calm her tears when she remembers her lady mother and father. She has always loved Shella Whent, but she was a properly trained lady who dared not speak out against her lord husband —not even when he broke her beloved daughter's flesh and maimed her golden crown. Her only child. Nigh ten years Anya spent with her birth mother, but that time can never compare to the time she has spent as Lyarra Stark's child.
Walter Whent never loved her, only scorned her existence and belittled her passions, but Rickard Stark had given her Winterfell's library and castle-forged steel. Shella Whent dolled her daughter up in the finest clothing and gave her the best handmaidens a lady could ask for, but Lyarra Stark had guided her as a mother should —tender, loving, stern, and wise.
Walys takes Anya to the godswood and sits down with her beneath the heart tree. It is one of the only times she has come to this part of Winterfell. She has always felt out of place with the Old Gods surrounding her after being raised by the Faith of the Seven. The maester's linked chain clinks and clanks as he kneels before the old tree and says a silent prayer, then all his focus shifts to Anya. "Lyarra Stark has been sick for a very long time, young one." The sickness came and went in spells, but it has never been so severe as this. Anya nods, bottom lips still quivering. Now it seems the curse of Harrenhal has followed her to Winterfell.
If the Old Gods will hear her prayers, then she will gladly condemn the Seven. The Father has never shown her justice in this life —she suffered Walter Whent's abuse and curses. The Mother has never shown her mercy to her or her brother. The Crone has never guided her through anything, only left her to misery in Harrenhal. The Smith has done nothing for her either. The Warrior gave her the strength and courage to run away, but that could have been her own will too. Only the Maiden blessed her with beauty, but that too could be a curse.
Anya's grey eyes turn to hard stone and sharp steel as she looks into the rippling pool of silver water before her. "How do I pray to the Old Gods?" She asks, pushing back her fear of forsaking the Seven.
"Just speak, child," Walys tells her, "lay her heart bare before the tree. The Old Gods will listen and should it be within their power they will answer." She nods, thinking of what to say, where to begin. Walys lays his wrinkled hand on her shoulder then rises, retreating with a kind smile.
A knock comes in the night, waking her from a dream of knights, maidens, and dragons. Jory Cassel stands outside her door with fresh tear stains on his cheeks and puffy eyes. Anya wishes to reprimand him for interrupting her sleep and give him a playful shove as she would have done on other nights, but she knows the reason he has come tonight. Words need not be spoken for her to understand. When Jory sees the first tear slide down her cheek, he steps forward and wraps his arms around her, letting her weep for her mother until the dawn breaks over the land.
A harper sings a sad song in the Great Hall the morn after Lyarra Stark's passing and Anya wears a dark woolen dress to match the dark attire of the Starks and yet, she cannot help but feel out of place. The body of Lyarra Stark rests upon a stone table, her face at ease. Lord Rickard holds his wife's hand, the renowned sternness fades as he grieves for his beloved the way any loving husband would —with tears and strangled words of devotion. Bannermen and members of the other great northern houses arrive and part in the passing days, sharing their grief and sympathies. The Umbers come and go, as do the Karstarks, Glovers, Ryswells, and Reeds.
When they take Lyarrya's body to the crypts, Anya does not follow. The crypts are not a place she belongs even if she now calls herself Anya Stark. Jory steps next to her and reaches for her hand, holding it within his until the Starks return from the tombs of their ancestors, and even then, she is reluctant to part.
It is not until Anya readies herself for bed late that night does she realize it is her nameday. Now she is a girl of twelve, almost a woman grown.
If you have read the books, especially A Storm of Swords then you will notice the only place I completely diverge from canon is when mentioning the Whent sons, in the books, they are alive and defend their sister in the tournament but for this story, I have chosen to have Anya as the only surviving child of House Whent. Above is my choice of casting for the Starks before and during Robert's Rebellion.
edited:
June 13, 2022