"I WISH YOU would not go out today," Ned says, his face a stern and solemn mask —he'd accepted Robert Baratheon's offer, unable to refuse his king. But preparations to venture south are not the reason he wishes Anya to remain within Winterfell's walls. Eddard Stark does not wish to leave Catelyn to the lions by her lonesome. She won't listen, and as usual, Benjen takes her side. Anya secures her cloak and slips on her riding gloves.
"Benjen and I are only going to hunt," she tells him, smiling sweetly —the spoils of their hunt could grace the next feast. "We'll be back in time to stuff our bellies, and I may even be polite to Robert if we manage to kill something." A good ride and hunt always serve as a welcomed distraction to calm her restless spirit.
Ned shakes his head, envying her at the moment for being able to slip away in light of their visitors. "Off with you then," he remarks, motioning toward the stables. Anya spares her brother a quick kiss on his wrinkled cheek and carries on her way, hauling Jory Cassel with her when their paths cross.
Jory helps her saddle Shadow —a great and unruly beast with a silver coat and black mane— and the horse whinnies until he gives up a sugar cube. Anya remembers when she bought the rambunctious colt from a farmer from Winter Town. A horse that refused to pull a plough was hardly worth anything at all to a poor farmer. Since then, Shadow's only ever taken to a few people, Jory being one of them. He brushes his hand down the horse's neck and then turns to help Anya, offering a boost when she reaches for the saddle horn and begins pulling herself up before passing her a yew bow and full quiver.
She smiles at him, then glances at Benjen —tightening one of the straps of his saddle. "Why don't you join us, Jory?" Anya asks. "Surely you don't have to mind my brother with the Kingsguard."
Jory's cheeks flush at the offer. Perhaps if it were not the first time Anya had seen her brother in a long while, he would have accepted, but going with her today feels too much like an unwanted intrusion. "Another time, my lady," he says, bowing his head and taking a step back. She sighs but nods and squeezes Shadow's sides, spurring the horse out of the stable yard and toward the main gate with Benjen following.
They race to the Wolfswood —neck and neck until Benjen pulls back on the reins and allows his sister the victory. Her laugh is music, a sweet song cutting through the silence of the wood. The silver courser between her legs huffs with the exertion, as does Benjen's cinnamon mare, Willow. Leaves and twigs snap and crunch under the weight of their horses' hooves. The underbrush is thick, the canopy sparse, and looming overhead is a grey sky —the low clouds heavy with rain or snow. Benjen glances at Anya and sees the far-off look in her eyes. "What's plaguing your thoughts?"
Anya sighs, looking at her brother and then to the skies above. "If I cut my hair and bind my chest, do you think I could go with you and Jon?" Benjen chuckles, but there's no sign of jest in her words or expression. She means it, more than she had when he first told her of his decision to leave for the Night's Watch all those years ago.
Blackbirds scatter from their perches as they ride deeper into the trees. "You do not belong there, sister." She frowns, knowing it's the truth. They'd never let a woman join. Benjen looks ahead into a rocky glade. "One of these days," he starts, "a fine lord is going to come to sweep you away to his castle." Anya laughs, she doesn't believe it, and she knows Bejen doesn't either. She's almost nine-and-twenty, past the prime age for marriage, and they both know she will never bear children of her own.
"I doubt it," she remarks. There are many reasons Anya Stark remains unwed and not for lack of suitors —before the rumors of her infertility began to spread. A piece of her believes it would be nice to settle down, though deep down, she knows her lord husband's keep would feel like a prison. But then her mind strays to Jory Cassel and what could become of their friendship. Benjen thinks he can guess who she's thinking of when a flush of warmth rises to her cheeks, but he says nothing.
"Remember when you sent Galbart Glover running back to Deepwood Motte?" Anya laughs, her smile wide and bright as the southern sun. She insulted his manhood after he'd come to ask Ned for permission to court his sister. Galbart Glover is but one of the men she's sent running back to their lord fathers and keeps with their tails tucked between their legs, rather it is with harsh —but often true— quips or by knocking them on their arses with a blade.
Benjen lifts his hand to halt Anya before she can go any further. The glade ahead is a good place to catch an unsuspecting stag or boar. They slide off their mounts, tacking the reins to young oak trees. "Look at the size of that one," he murmurs, eyeing a grazing red stag at the edge of the treeline. Anya nocks an arrow and keeps close to her brother, mindful of each step. She crouches, bow half-drawn, and Benjen nods. They both know what to do —aim for the heart, release in three heartbeats.
The bows creak in the cold. Anya anchors the butt of the arrow with her lips, feeling the tickle of the turkey feather fletching. One. She exhales. Two. Her fingers begin to slacken on the bowstring. Three. Anya loses her arrow, and Benjen does too. The deer lifts its head at the soft whistle of the arrows cutting through the air, but it's too late —the creature lies unmoving on the forest floor with two arrows piercing its heart. She and Benjen exchange smiles at their success, and then she brings a hunter's horn up to her lips —neither of their horses would be able to bear the weight all the way back to Winterfell.
One of the smallfolk from Winter Town hears the horn and rides out, bringing a mule-drawn cart. She and Benjen heave the stag onto the cart and instruct the man to deliver it to Winterfell. Anya promises they'll pay the man for his services, a coin purse, or a ration from the deer. They return to their horses, mounting up to begin a slow ride back to the castle —time to talk about the happenings at the Wall and the gossip from across the Seven Kingdoms.
When they reach the gates of Winterfell, Benjen is quick to hand off his horse and join the feast, but Anya goes to the godswood, feeling a heavy weight resting upon her chest. She slides from Shadow's saddle and kneels at the heart tree —praying the old gods be good and protect her family from Robert Baratheon's plans, and look over Benjen and Jon at the Wall. Wind rustles the scarlet leaves, and she takes it as a sign.
Rising from prayer and reflection, Anya leads Shadow to the stables and passes the silver beast to a young boy, though another horse catches her eye —a sleek black warhorse, the largest she's seen. He stamps his hoof into the straw-covered ground as she passes by. "Aren't you magnificent?" Anya reaches to pat the beast's neck, but he bares his teeth and bites at the wool cloak around her shoulders. Affronted, Anya steps back and glares at the horse.
"Bother him, and he'll knock you on your arse." The voice, rough and unfamiliar, startles her. She turns to face the shadow looming over her, finding Joffrey's dog looking down at her. Sandor Clegane's arms are crossed, broadsword still strapped to his back. He means to intimidate her.
Anya turns back to the black warhorse —calmer now since his rider has appeared— and pulls off her riding gloves. "I see where he must get his temper from," she remarks, tossing the gloves to a table. The stablehands would put them away with Shadow's saddle and blanket.
The Hound glances at her with callous indifference. "Aren't you supposed to be at the feast, girl?" Anya shrugs and reaches for the half-empty wineskin tucked in her cloak. The summerwine is cool on her tongue, and Anya takes a long drink from the skin before offering it to Sandor. He doesn't take it at first, still looking at her with a sour expression, but before she can tuck it back into her cloak, he takes it and turns the skin up, drinking a hefty amount of what's left.
"Could ask the same of you," Anya challenges. "Didn't think Joffrey would let his dog wander too far." Sandor snorts, surprised by the little lady's boldness to speak to him so crassly. She wanders away into the dark recesses of the stables and returns with a green apple. The Hound gives a curt nod, and she offers the piece of fruit up to the black warhorse. He takes it from her hand, almost gently, and lets her pat his neck without being nipped or kicked. "Does he have a name?"
"Stranger," he answers, looking at his black mount. The horse has been by his side for nigh seven years —some joke the horse is twice as stubborn as he is and harder to kill too. He steps beside Anya and reaches over the stall door, patting the black beast's withers. "He's a good horse." Stranger whinnies affectionately and presses his muzzle against the big man's shoulder.
Anya laughs. A good horse indeed though his behavior says otherwise. "I've no doubt," she remarks, pushing back the hood of her cloak. Honey-colored curls spill out from beneath the dark wool, her braid almost undone after the day's activities. Anya knows she should attend the feast. With Benjen returned, Ned would grow wary of her absence, and the royal guests would take note as well. "Would you see a lady safely to the occasion?"
The Hound glances down at her. His expression caught halfway between hesitance and curiosity. Few people can bear to look him in the eye for so long before his scars warded them away, but the woman standing next to him is either blind or stubborn. Either way, it unnerves him to have the attention. He looks away as he replies to her gentle request. "Aye, if there was a lady present."
Anya laughs —a sweet songbird's call that chases away the chill of the night for only a moment. She's always appreciated it when others treat her as an equal, not just a dainty highborn lady. "Come on, little lady," Sandor says. "Let's get you back to Lord Stark." He does not offer the crook of his arm as a knight would have done. They only walk side-by-side in silence to the Great Hall, and Anya finds she is content with that.
ROBB IS OUT of breath when he finds Anya and Jory in the godswood —talking about Ned's decision to become Hand of the King and what it will mean for them to be hundreds of miles apart. She knows something is wrong instantly, and her heart falls to the pits of her stomach, just as her hands fall away from Jory's. Bran has fallen and will not wake. She races to the boy's room.
Anya stops at the doorway, seeing Catelyn stand next to the bed in which the boy lay, grieving as though he is already lost, and Maester Luwin looking over Bran with great care. She waits for the maester to leave and follows him down a flight of stairs —until they are out of earshot of Bran's room. "Tell me the truth," she asks, knowing Catelyn would be reluctant to hear it and even more so to speak it aloud.
"If Bran wakes," Luwin pauses and rests his wrinkled hand on Anya's shoulder, "I do not think he will ever walk again." It tears at her heart. Little Brandon Stark —the boy she helped raise, the boy who loved to ride through the Wolfswood and climb the stone walls and towers of Winterfell will ride again. Never climb again. Anya's shoulders fall, but she accepts the truth. "There's nothing you can do but pray for the boy," he confides, turning to descend the stairs, the links of his chain clinking in the silence.
Anya pulls Catelyn into her arms, but she turns away from the embrace and sobs. There is little anyone can do to relieve her pain and grief. Her fingers are close to bleeding as she sits to weave vines and twigs together —a prayer wheel of the Seven. "Catelyn," Anya breathes, reaching for her marriage-sister, but she does not want to hear condolences, does not want pity or sympathy like this. Catelyn's sharp stare cuts through her, a harsh reminder that no matter how much she loved Bran and the others, she is not their mother and has bore no children of her —nor would she ever.
She looks at Bran and steps to the bed. Anya bends, brushing back Bran's hair, and places a kiss on his forehead. "Go," Catelyn's voice trembles and cracks. She will not part from her son's side, but she cannot bear the thought of sending Ned and her girls to King's Landing —the lion and snake den— alone. "Go with Ned and the girls, please," she begs.
"I will," Anya concedes, leaving at once to begin preparing her things for the long journey to the capital, uncertain of when she would return to Winterfell again. She packs them all into a coffer and two trunks and readies her bow and sword to carry on Shadow's saddle.
THE FOLLOWING MORN, everyone prepares to depart. They gather in the Great Hall to break their fast on boiled eggs, salted pork, and dried fish with toasted bread and prickleberry preserves. Anya sits across from Jory and Benjen, staring blankly at the plate in front of her —nigh untouched.
Most there didn't seem to have an appetite after learning of Bran's condition. Nothing about it adds up. Anya never knew a boy to be more surefooted —she's watched him climb the Broken Tower a hundred times over without faltering. She leaves after taking a few bites of buttered bread; it's all she can manage before it makes her stomach churn.
Shaggydog pads up to her as Lannister soldiers pass, carrying the queen and her children's trunks to the covered wayns and wheelhouses. She scratches the direwolf's head and looks around, knowing Rickon would not be far. The voice calling out for the direwolf is small and quiet in the ruckus, but both Shaggydog and Anya hear it. "Rickon!" Anya scoops the boy up into her arms, mussing his hair. He wiggles in her arms to try and escape but stills when he sees Shadow being led from the stables —the boy hadn't realized she was leaving too.
"You best behave for your mother," she tells him. Rickon looks at her with his wide and bright blue eyes, then wraps his arms around her neck in a silent hug. Anya rubs his back and holds him tight, knowing the next time she sees him, he'll likely be a young man, no longer a boy. "Now" —she places him back to the ground and nudges the boy toward the black direwolf— "run along with Shaggydog."
Rickon disappears into the recesses of Winterfell with Shaggydog on heel. Anya turns to Shadow and brushes her fingers along his muzzle before securing him to a hitching post. She heaves the saddle onto her shoulder and goes to the silver steed. The queen's ladies look at her with wrinkled noses, and even Tyrion Lannister casts an odd look her way —it was not a common sight to see a highborn lady readying her own horse. But Shadow is a stubborn beast, and the last person who tried to saddle him almost lost two fingers.
The wind is like ice, and Anya cannot help but think it is an omen. She pulls the hood of her cloak back up and wipes the dampness from her eyes, settling the dark woolen blanket on Shadow's back and the saddle soon after. "Aunt Anya." She turns to face Robb and smiles —he looks like a proper lord now.
"Robb," she breathes, opening her arms to embrace him. Anya kisses his forehead, like she'd done when he was a boy, then steps back, clasping onto his shoulders. He tries to look older than he is, stronger too, especially given the grief-stricken state of his mother. Anya knows he'll do a fine job and make Ned proud too. "Don't let it burn to the ground while we're away." Robb laughs, knowing he'll miss her dry and morose sense of humor —and her counsel.
Anya looks around the courtyard a final time and frowns. "Tell Theon his absence has wounded me." Balon Greyjoy's son left before the break of dawn to hunt, and when he returns, she will be gone, along with half of Winterfell. It seems a shame she cannot tell him farewell after helping raise him as she had the others.
"Keep Arya out of trouble," Robb tells her, the slightest of smiles pulling at his lips as she mounts Shadow. He hands her the soft leather pair of riding gloves.
She shakes her head and laughs. "Now you're asking for me to do the impossible."
The King's traveling party turns south on the Kingsroad, and those destined for the Wall and Castle Black turn north. Anya still doesn't understand why Tyrion Lannister is keen on seeing the Wall, but he and a small host of Lannister men go with Yoren and Dolorous Edd. Benjen and Anya stop near the intersection of the great road and the smaller one leading to Winterfell.
"You better take care of him, Benjen," she says, voice brittle and cracking with emotion. Tears prick at her eyes, thinking about how she'll be a world away from Jon. They'll hardly see each other now, and it makes her heart twist. She's seen Jon every day for nigh fifteen years, but now he is no longer hers to watch over and protect.
"I'll do everything I can," Benjen promises, reaching for his sister's hand. "He'll be a man soon, though," he reminds her. Anya nods, understanding Jon was a green boy now, but after swearing the vows of the Night's Watch, he would be a black brother —a man. Benjen Stark's never seen his sister look so stricken with grief —like a wilting rose with only a handful of days left before all her petals are dried and fallen.
He squeezes her hand. "Take care of them, Anya," he says, looking south where his brother and nieces are bound. She swallows the knot in her throat and nods, offering a weak smile before letting her brother's hand go and turning to ride where Jon waits —a final farewell and the hardest.
She pulls back on Shadow's reins, bringing the horse to a halt next to Jon's dark steed. "Jon." He looks at her, and they both slip from their saddles. The first time she laid eyes upon Jon Snow was on the hill where they stand now. He was only a babe, swaddled in fur and squalling in Eddard Stark's arms. Jon had looked up and smiled at her, and Anya fell in love with him then and there. Jon sees the tremble of her bottom lip, the unshed tears glistening in her eyes. He's never liked seeing her upset. But they move at the same time.
Jon presses his face into her neck and lets himself be a small boy, just one last time. It's the way he hugged her after waking from a bad dream or when the others would tease him for being a bastard. Anya holds him tight as she can —her dear boy— but then she lets him go and steps back. Her throat is tight, but she bites back the tears and smooths down the crisscrossing straps of his heavy fur-lined cloak.
He wears black now, like Benjen. The color suits him —it always has. "Black has always been your color." Jon blinks away the dampness in his eyes and smiles. "Remember all I've taught you." He isn't like to forget any of the lessons Anya taught him or the ones learned from Ned and Ser Rodrick. "Stay safe," she says, and Jon only nods. He can't bring himself to make a promise he knows he can't keep.
Anya steps back to Shadow, and Jon does the same, pulling himself back into the saddle. "Off you go, now," she tells him, smile fading. Jon turns to ride north, and Anya Stark goes south. I will not weep. Direwolves do not cry. She is a Stark. The direwolf sigil is embroidered on her cloak, not the nine bats of House Whent.
edited:
July 12, 2022