TRAVELING ON THE Kingsroad is a royal pain in Anya Stark's arse. Robert commands the cavalcade to stop for food and drink at each and every inn and castle they come across —and if there's a whore he can stick his prick in for the night, it makes everything all the better. With each feast thrown to honor the king by vassal lords, Anya swears Robert grows fatter. It feels as though winter will have come and gone before they ever reach the capital. She looks ahead at the long line of horses and footmen marching along the road, regretting having ever left Winterfell and dreading the moment she arrives in King's Landing.
Anya rides next to Ned and Jory most of the time, though, on occasion, she rides ahead to Sandor's side, trailing behind Prince Joffrey —who finds it amusing a wolf has taken an interest in a hound. They don't speak much, just a few words here and there and a couple of odd glances. Sandor Clegane still thinks her strange. She isn't afeared of him, can even look him in the eye when most ordained knights couldn't. He finds he can respect her for that, even if she is a proper little highborn lady.
The traveling party stops early in the afternoon at a small inn and tavern off the Kingsroad to let the horses rest and allow everyone a break from riding. It's an opportunity Anya welcomes, even if it means another day of travel —the long days of sitting astride Shadow have made her arse go numb more times than she cares to count. Jory offers to tend to Shadow, and Anya offers an appreciative smile as she unties her cloak and strips off her riding gloves —nigh falling into her tent for a moment's rest. But a moment soon turns to hours.
Most are asleep when Anya crawls from her tent with a grumbling stomach and a hankering for something stronger than watered ale. Robert Baratheon had already drunk the stores of wine dry —giving Anya yet another reason for her soured mood. She's certain wine would have helped Cersei and the other ladies' complaints about the severity of traveling without their fineries be more tolerable.
It's the hour of the ghosts, with the crescent moon shining through a veil of pale clouds. Small fires pock the camp and glow in the windows of the tavern and inn —warm and welcoming. Anya makes her way to the tavern but stops to watch a dark figure polish a dog's head helm with an oiled rag. Sandor Clegane is resting against one of the old trees, tending his helm and blades. There's a simplicity in the action which reminds her of one of Ser Rodrik's lessons in the courtyard of Winterfell after Benjen gave her a real sword of her own. Neat clothes and an eye-pleasing appearance will not save anyone's life, but a sword will, so long as it's well-cared for and the person at the dull end knows what they're doing. The memory fades as quickly as it'd come, and Anya goes to Sandor without hesitation. "Take a drink with me?" She asks.
The Hound looks for something in her eyes or smile which would tell him this is only a jest —a fool's dare from one of the other ladies— but there's no sign of deception in her grey eyes. He grunts, and the mass of scarred flesh above his eye twitches, as though he is trying to raise the dropping brow in question or challenge. "Last I heard, it was unladylike to drink," he rasps.
Anya scoffs and crosses her arms, but Sandor Clegane pushes himself from the ground and stands, adjusting the gorget of his armor and his swordbelt. "Let's pretend I'm not a lady then," she smiles.
Sandor looks down at her and motions for her to take the lead. The innkeeper brings out two bowls of beef broth and a loaf of brown bread —burnt on the bottom. Anya tosses him a silver stag and asks for wine for herself and her friend. He's quick to have a serving wench bring them a pair of flagons filled with red wine from the Vale and two cups.
It takes three tankards of sweet red for the Hound's tongue to loosen —he's blunt and bawdy, which makes Anya think he could make a very good drinking companion, especially once they finally reach the capital. Sandor sets down his mug and leans forward on the table, looking up from under his drooping brow. "Can you play the harp and sing pretty little songs?" The question is meant to be mocking, but Anya cannot be bothered to find the offense in it.
"Been years since I touched a harp," she answers. Septa Nyla tried to teach her, but she'd always been too heavy-handed on the strings. "As for singing?" Anya takes another drink of the wine —she won't give him the satisfaction of knowing all her talents just yet. "I know the songs," she remarks with a shrug. She certainly wasn't an Elissa Farman or Bethany Fair-Fingers, but her voice had been pleasant enough to lull her nieces and nephews back to sleep.
Anya glances down at her hands —the tips of her fingers rough from how many times she'd pricked them with a needle while sewing. Sometimes she even stuck herself on purpose in hopes Septa Nyla would excuse her from the lessons —it never worked. "Half the time, I wish I'd been born with a cock to spare myself from all the womanly lessons," she admits.
The Hound howls with laughter, and half of the inn grows silent at the unexpected sound. "You're not half bad, little lady," he muses, tilting up his cup of wine. The compliment brings a flush of warmth creeping up her neck and to her cheeks. Anya takes a generous gulp of the dry wine and drags her tunic's sleeve across her lips, leaving a faint red stain behind.
Deciding it best to return to her tent to try and get some sleep before sunrise, Anya rises and finishes her drink. "Neither are you," she counters. She would have offered him a smile, but it didn't feel right. Sandor Clegane didn't want the sweet words or manners Septa Nyla taught her. With him, away from everyone else, she could be herself unreservedly and without judgment.
THE QUEEN'S WHEELHOUSE breaks a seventh axle over the rough terrain of the Riverlands, but this time the gods had been good enough to allow them to be stranded near the crossroads inn. Jaime Lannister, the lucky bastard, rides ahead to the capital with a small host of Lannister men —preparations for the return of the king had been his excuse. Anya half-wishes she could have accompanied him, anything to get away from this insufferable lot. She's had to bite her tongue more times than she cares to remember since leaving Winterfell. The only southron still tolerable is Sandor Clegane, and even then, there are times she wishes to be rid of him too.
She finds a shaded spot beneath a great oak tree and takes to hone the edge of her two blades. Sandor watches her slide a chunk of whetstone down the sword's edge —it is castle forged steel, the blade shorter than a standard bastard sword, but still a good weapon. It strikes him as an unfamiliar sight. Women didn't fight, much less tend to weapons and armor. He approaches Anya Stark and looks down his nose at where she sits.
"You know how to sharpen a blade?" It's like he's stuck his foot in his mouth. Her glare is almost as sharp as the edge of her sword. Anya doesn't answer. Instead, she unsheathes the knife on her hip. The hilt is gilded, the pommel encrusted with dark and sparkling gems, and the thin blade ripples like water. It was a gift from a Braavosi trader in White Harbor when House Stark visited the Manderlys. "Know how to use 'em?" Why would I have the bloody things if I didn't know how to use them?
Anya rises and sheathes her dagger, taking up her bastard sword instead. Sandor reckons the short sword is good for a tickle, maybe. "Would you like a demonstration?" She asks, derisive —men have underestimated her all her life. The Hound snorts. Wouldn't be right of him to cross blades with the Hand's sister, but she doesn't back down, and the ire in her icy eyes only grows when he shakes his head. He's not about to be the one who puts Anya Stark in the cold dark earth. Bravery or stupidity, either way, it'll get her killed one day.
"My lady," Jory greets, his dark gaze flitting between her and the Hound. "Lord Stark wishes to see you." She returns the bastard sword to the scabbard at her hip and gestures for him to lead the way to her brother's tent. Sandor watches her go, thinking she might be the rarest woman in all Seven Kingdoms.
"I could've taken him," she whispers, gripping Jory's arm. Men like the Hound had brute strength, but she is quick, and even the strongest must tire eventually.
Jory laughs under his breath. "I've no doubt, my lady," he tells her, teasing almost as he draws back one of the flaps to Ned's temporary quarters.
Lord Eddard Stark sits at a small desk, a scroll of parchment flattened out in front of him —already deep into his new position as Hand of the King. He looks up when she enters, quickly bidding farewell to Jory. "Do you know how much longer we will be on the road?" Anya asks, sitting across from her brother. The trip to the capital is taking longer than expected —in part from the queen's wheelhouse continually breaking axle after axle. It halts the procession for sometimes more than two days as a rider either rode forward or backward to the nearest blacksmith or wainwright.
"Two more weeks at least," Ned says, tapping away the excess ink on his quill. Even he has grown tired of the journey. Anya supposes it's better than hearing it'd be another month, though she cannot help but grow uneasy the closer they grow to the shadow of Harrenhal. Presumably, only her mother remains to keep the great castle. "Will you find Arya?" He asks, glancing up from the letter. "It's nigh time for her lessons with Septa Mordane?"
Arya is not to found in the mass of tents and scattered men. Several say they saw the girl headed to the river with her wolf and the butcher's boy, but that'd been some time ago already. Before she reaches the treeline, one of Cersei's ladies-in-waiting screams. Anya rushes through the tents, hand curled around the hilt of her sword, but the damage is done. Joffrey cradles his arm —the linen and silk of sleeve stained with blood— and curses Arya for attacking him and then setting Nymeria on him too. And Sansa weeps for her poor sweet prince and tells the queen and her men she doesn't know where Arya ran off. "Bring the girl and her wild beast to me," Cersei commands. She will see they are both disciplined.
Anya sets off into the woods —knowing Ned would not be far behind now. "Arya!" Night creeps in, and the forest grows dark. She can hear others yelling too. "Arya!" Her heart is pounding, knowing she needs to find the girl to take to her father before the queen's men. The search feels as though it goes on for hours.
Ned finds Anya by the river bank before she can disappear into the dense foliage again. The torchlight casts dark shadows on his face, making him seem years older than he is. She tells him of her futile efforts so far, close to tears. "My lord!" Jory Cassel rides up, quickly dismounting his white horse. "My lord!" He calls again, and both Ned and Anya turn. "They found her," he tells them. "She's unharmed." He's quick to add, watching Anya's shoulders fall with relief.
"Where is she?" Ned demands.
"She's been taken directly before the king," Jory answers. As quick as the relief came, it is gone again. The girl should have been brought to her father, not Robert, not Cersei. Anya looks around the forest clearing, still hoping to find Nymeria or the butcher's boy. "The Lannisters found her."
Ned runs a hand over his face. "Back!" He commands. "Back to the inn!" The torches pocking the woods begin to grow smaller as everyone turns back toward the inn.
"The queen ordered them to bring her straight to them," Jory continues, and Ned's temper only flares hotter. Anya doesn't move at first, and Jory takes another step toward her, already knowing what it is running through her mind. "You won't find Nymeria," Jory confesses. "I helped Arya throw stones to chase her off." Anya nods —she knows how much the direwolf meant to the girl. It is a good thing what she and Jory did. And even better to know Cersei will not be able to have Nymeria's hide. He clasps her shoulder, hoping she will return with them, but even if Nymeria is safe, the butcher's boy wouldn't be.
"I'm going to search for the butcher's boy a bit longer." Jory gives a curt nod and remounts his horse, turning back to rejoin the others. If Anya found the boy, he would need to run, fast and far, to escape the wrath of Joffrey and his mother. She holds the torch aloft and calls out the boy's name, wandering deeper into the woods, along the banks of the Trident.
Anya returns to the Inn with nothing to show for her search —the butcher's boy, Mycah, is naught to be seen, and Nymeria is long gone. She enters during the aftermath of Cersei and Robert's decision to find Sansa crying and Arya's wide eyes shining with tears as Jory tries consoling each of them. Ned looks at his sister, knowing she will protest what must be done next. Anya follows him into the night and reaches out, gripping his wrist. "Is there no other way?" She asks, voice trembling at the thought.
Ned's heart is heavy when he shakes his head. It feels like a bad omen to be the one to kill the sigil of his house, but he won't let Illyn Payne near Lady, and he won't let Cersei have her pelt either. "If not by my hand, then it would be by a butcher's," he tells her. Anya swallows the knot in her throat and nods. She understands that it has to be done, but it doesn't make it any easier. Ned goes to where Lady is tied, drawing the dagger from his belt.
From the darkness on the road emerges a figure walking next to a large black horse —something is tossed over the saddle, a slaughtered animal. She can see the blood dripping from the animal's legs, but as the horse and man draw nigh, she realizes it's not an animal at all.
It is a boy. Red of hair and round of face. Mycah —the butcher's boy. Anya feels her stomach churn and bile rise in her throat. The boy is almost cleaved in two, his blood and guts dripping from Stranger's saddle. "How could you?!" Anya shakes her head and stumbles back when the Hound takes another step toward her. "He was only a boy!" She cries.
Sandor makes a gruff noise in the back of his throat, not unlike a growl. Behind her, Lady yelps, and the sound of Sansa and Arya's wails fill the night. "Not my place to question princes or queens, little lady," he sneers, letting her take a good long look at the boy's blood on his hands. "When you give a dog a command, he follows it." The Hound strides away to present Cersei and Joffrey with one of their prizes, and in the distant night, a lone wolf howls —calling for its pack.
SHE RIDES IN silence, finding Ned and Jory in no mood to speak after the previous evening's happenings. Sansa rides alone in one of the wheelhouses, holding tight to Lady's collar and leash, unwilling to entertain anyone's company. Anya lets Arya ride with her atop Shadow, but she hasn't much to say. The shadow of Harrenhal's crumbling towers comes and goes, but Anya can only focus on the Kingsroad before her. On the morrow, they will finally reach King's Landing, and it cannot come soon enough.
For a final time, the tents are set up, horses are led away by traveling stablehands, and the cooks begin the evening meal. Arya and Sansa take their tents in bitter silence. Anya clasps Ned's shoulder, as though to tell him only time can repair the rift between the sisters. War is easier than daughters he thinks, knowing his sister is right.
At dusk, she wanders into the grove of nearby trees and takes all her simmering anger out on a young oak sapling, hacking away at its trunk until she fears it will damage her blade beyond repair. Anya thinks of Jon and how he's beaten half-a-hundred training dummies into the dirt. She hopes he is well —that the Wall is treating him and Ghost more kindly than the Kingsroad has treated her. With her tears dried, she returns to camp.
She and Jory sup together by one of the campfires —roast venison, buttered turnips, and stale brown bread. But he soon leaves to meet with his host of Northmen and make sure all is in line for their arrival in the capital. His shadow is dark and long in the setting sun. Anya looks up from her cup of warm ale and frowns. "Finally see me for what I am, little lady? A killer? A monster?" The Hound asks, his scarred lips pulled into a sneer. He expects her to be afraid. He wants her to cower in fear and disgust, but she doesn't. Even now, she holds his gaze, her expression an unreadable mask.
"I've known you were a killer since I laid eyes on you," she says. Everyone is a killer —that's just the way things are. The world she'd been born into was molded by killers, but it is a knife's edge difference between a killer becoming a monster. "But a monster?" She shakes her head. "No." Others might see him as an abomination, but Anya knows what true monsters are like and what they do. Sandor Clegane is only a hound. She rises from her place by the fire and dumps out the last dregs of ale from the wooden cup. "A dog's masters are the ones at fault," she tells him, never once breaking away from his cold glare until she retreats to her tent.
sweet Jory
edited:
July 16, 2022