SHE HOPES READING will be the cure for her restlessness, but she cannot bear to sit still long enough to read more than a page at a time. It's the culmination of being cooped up within the Keep for three days now —the rainstorm hardly ebbs from dawn to dusk. She doesn't enjoy the feeling of being trapped, unable to walk the gardens or practice archery in the courtyard. It stirs her to madness.
Sighing, Anya reaches for her cloak and goes to the door. She opens it slowly, hoping it will not creak or groan too loudly and wake Jory —he still lies in her bed, chest rising and falling in even breaths. If there is one good to come from this venture, Anya thinks it is the time she spends with him. A part of her wonders what Ned would think, or even Benjen for that matter —but she is happy, a difficult feat to achieve in the capital. Anya lets the door close behind her and then races into the night.
At Winterfell, on nights when she could not sleep, Anya would find herself in the kitchens. She found making honey cakes was a good way to relax a restless mind ever since the cook and baker taught her when she was only a kitchen servant. Robb and Jon found her most of the time in the early hours of the morning when they each tried to sneak off with extra rations of bacon —on those mornings, they made off with extra bacon and sweets for later.
Anya protects the flame of her candle from the wind and rain under her outstretched cloak as she darts across the courtyard in the darkness and deep into the bowels of Maegor's Holdfast. The halls are dark, with only dim sconces and braziers to light the path to the kitchens. It reminds her of the first weeks after she arrived in Winterfell —clumsy and untrained, but Maycey, the head cook, took her under her care. No matter the time, the stove will always be hot —the fire lit and welcoming. Anya steps into the main galley of the Keep's kitchens and frowns. The kitchen is the heart of the castle, Maycey used to say. But if the kitchen is truly the heart of the castle, then the Red Keep is dead or heartless. Anya cannot tell which it is.
She lights the candles and braziers and sets a fire in the great stone oven. It takes a long while to find where everything is, but once everything is gathered, Anya starts with honey cake —the way Maycey taught her to make them, twice baked and glazed with honey and crushed nuts. With dough betwixt her fingers, it brings bittersweet memories of childhood and family. Anya doesn't take notice of the kitchen-maid until she speaks —nigh horrified to find the sister of the Hand elbow deep in flour. "Milady! What are you doing down here at this hour?" She freezes and looks up, red-faced. "You should have sent word if you wished for something," the girl chides, gently as she can as to not offend.
Anya glances down at her hands and feels embarrassment twist her stomach and tighten her throat. "I couldn't sleep," she admits, eyes flitting upward.
The kitchen-maid doesn't press any further —it's not her place to judge or dictate what Anya Stark chooses to do. The girl looks over the ingredients: flour, eggs, cream, butter, honey, and soda ash, among other oddities. "What are you making, milady?" She questions.
"Lemon and honey cakes," she answers. The kitchen-maid falls in at her side, wordlessly beginning to help. They work in quiet harmony, only speaking on occasion about food and even matters of the heart. The skies start a slow shift from indigo to pale blue and orange with the rising sun, and slowly other workers begin trickling in to start preparing morning meals as the two batches of sweet cakes come from the oven.
Cersei Lannister wishes to speak with Ned Stark's sister. Only when the queen sends Sandor Clegane to retrieve her, Anya is not to be found in the Tower of the Hand. Whispers and rumors lead the Hound to the kitchens and there he finds her —asleep in a nook away from the bustling workers with a tray of honey and lemon cakes sitting next to her on the table. Flour still clings to her hair, making the strands look grey instead of gold. Sandor shakes her shoulder to wake her, and she groans in protest, reluctant to sit up straight and open her eyes. "You're in no state to see the queen, little rose," he tells her. If anything, she looks like a peasant who snuck into the Keep to make off with a sack of food.
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 Stark 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.
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.
She tosses one of the training swords to Arya with no warning, but the girl catches it with ease —just as the First Sword of Bravos taught her to. Anya always thought she was quick in comparison to her brothers and the other boys she crossed swords with, yet compared to her niece, she moves like a stubborn old knight. The difference between being trained by a master-at-arms and a water dancer. But they each have something to learn from one another as wood clanks together in a continuous series of parries and strikes.
Ned watches them from the window of his solar and remembers a time when he was just a green boy all those years ago —Brandon would knock him on his arse and thump his head with the flat of his sparring sword. "Your footwork has improved," Anya remarks. Arya's come a long way in only a short time. The girl grins.
"Jory!" Anya calls, waving him over. "Spare a moment?" Having delivered a letter to Varys from Lord Stark, Jory decides he can spare a moment to entertain Anya and Arya's whims. Arya gives him her wooden sword and steps back to watch. By no means are either of them renowned swordsmen, but Arya still thinks it's fun to see them fight, though given how well they know one another, it looks more like a dance —the wooden swords clanking and clacking against one another. Anya steps away from one of his blows and swipes his bicep before they reach a stalemate, each pushing against the other. "You always lean to the right when you mean to strike low," Anya tells him, heart racing.
His lips quirk upward. "Do I?" At the same time, their swords unlock, and each step backward. Anya settles back on her heels and lays the flat of the sword against her bent arm —waiting for him to strike again. He does, but she flicks her sword up and knocks his away, pressing the blunt point into his gut. "I yield," Jory breathes, discarding the wooden sword and holding his hands up in surrender. Arya claps for her aunt's victory, and even with the applause, it takes a long moment for the two of them to snap from their trance.
Anya lowers the practice blade, smiling —Jory swears he'd let her beat him a hundred times over if only to see her smile. He steps back and bends at the waist, giving a half-bow to Arya and Anya before returning to his duties.
Two more bouts and Anya starts to notice her niece's swings and steps growing sloppy —she will need to train more to work on endurance. Arya sits on a stone bench, turning the wooden sword over in her hands. "Did your mother approve of you learning to fight?" She asks, eyes wide and curious.
Anya bites down on her tongue —thinking of Shella Whent at first. My birth mother hated that I found more joy in fighting than dancing. Lyarra never objected, but a mother always wishes to have her little princesses to spoil and pamper. "Yes," she says, "but Lord Rickard and she came to an agreement that so long as I still did my studies, I could practice and play with my brothers and Jory."
Arya smiles, wishing her mother would think the same, but at least Ned never objected —not even to her practicing archery.
Anya looks across the courtyard and remembers a Targaryen queen. "Have you heard of Visenya Targaryen?" Arya nods, remembering the name from a lesson, but little more than that. "I used to want to be like her when I was your age." Shella Whent never liked her daughter's interest in the Targaryens, especially Aegon's sister-wives.
Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin, and perhaps I was born mad to look up to such women, she thinks. "Her dragon was named Vhagar, and she had a sword named Dark Sister," Anya explains. "My favorite tale is the Field of Fire when Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya unleashed their dragons." She cannot imagine the terror the Lords of Westeros must have felt upon seeing three full-grown dragons raining down fire o're the land —the melted stone of Harrenhal is only a glimpse of the destruction and horror. Arya sits still and quiet, waiting to hear more.
ARYA TUGS ON Anya's arm before she can return to her room. "Aunt Anya, why would anyone want to kill my father?" Arya asks with a shakey voice. Anya frowns at the sudden question. "I was down in the dungeon, chasing a cat," the girl explains, "and I heard two men talking." She sits on the bench at the foot of Arya's bed, looking the girl in the eyes as she continues. "If one hand can die, why not a second?" She wishes she would have stayed a second longer, to match faces with the voices, but one of the teeth in the dragon's skull fell, and she had to run through the tunnels and sewers. "No one's going to hurt him, right? King Robert will protect him, won't he?"
Oh, Ned, what have you done to anger the players of this cruel game? Anya pushes back the girl's hair. "He has Jory and a host of his most trusted men here," she assures her niece. "They won't let anyone harm your father" —she offers a weak smile, tucking Arya's hair behind her ears— "or you and your sister." I won't let anything happen to you, either.
"You're lying, aren't you?" Arya frowns. Am I that terrible of a liar?
Anya purses her lips and leans forward, not wishing to lie to her family. "This is a dangerous place, Arya," she starts, repeating what her father said too, "you must realize that." Robert may be king, but it is the Lannisters and small councils who pull the puppet strings and weave webs of lies and whispers. "We all must be careful." Arya nods. "Ned's men will lay down their lives for him and you if need be." Though I hope it will not come to that. Anya sighs and kisses Arya's forehead —a poor replacement for the comfort of a mother, but for now, it is enough.
"Winter is coming," Arya whispers. Fly by night, Anya's mind says in response.
It's not uncommon for Anya to steal away in the night, whether it be to the gardens, the library, or the tavern for a drink, but Jory notices a different look in her eyes when she means to pass him in one of the halls. "Anya?" He calls, and she turns, lowering the hood of her cloak —no point in trying to sneak about now. "Where are you going?" Jory asks. "You've got a look about you." It's one of worry and cold determination, and he fears what it is she might do.
Anya frowns and steps closer to him, knowing there is no sense in hiding her intentions. Mindlessly, she reaches for Jory's hands and draws him to her. "I wish to have armor made," she admits, whispering so no little birds would chance to hear, "a shirt of mail at the very least." She isn't sure what first made her feel as though war is on the horizon, but the Starks and Lannisters are at each other's throats, and with each passing day, it feels inevitable. And when the time comes, Anya Stark refuses to stand idly.
"I'll escort you," Jory tells her, not letting her protest, but she'll gladly accept his company. "It's not safe," he adds, a whisper too. He's taken note of the looks and rumors —none of the Starks belonged this far south.
She takes his hand. "I know." King's Landing is a dangerous place, and they all must tread carefully. Jory leads her to the Street of Steel and the line of smithies in their open-air shops and forges, but even her name and a coin purse aren't enough. The first laughs and the second thinks it is a mockery of his work to outfit a woman. The third smith laughs too but says he'll forge her a set of armor if she gets on her knees and sucks his cock. Anya bloodies his nose with a single blow before Jory can speak or draw his sword.
She almost gives up hope, but then Jory leads her to another shop —one he and Ned had gone to only a few days prior. Two stone knights armored in red suits molded into a griffin and a unicorn guard the entrance. Anya slams the iron knocker on the pale wooden door, and on the other side comes shuffling, then the sound of latches and locks being undone. A boy of Robb's age stands before her. He's tall with pitch-colored hair and eyes bluer than any Tully. But he's the spitting image of a young Robert Baratheon —surely it isn't, Anya tells herself. "Are you the smith?" She asks.
It takes several long moments for him to snap from a trance and respond. "No, milady," he says, shaking his head. "Name's Gendry. I'm Master Mott's apprentice," the boy explains.
"May I speak with him?" Gendry nods and motions for her and Jory to follow behind him. The second floor above the shop has shelves lining the walls with books and ledgers, though the largest wall is reserved for swords, axes, and warhammers —a display of excellent craftsmanship.
The smith introduces himself as Tobho Mott —the master armorer for the city. They speak over a small glass of wine, his apprentice and Jory conversing near the door. She makes her request for something that will be light and maneuverable enough to fire a bow but still strong enough to provide protection. And perhaps, most importantly, it needs to blend into the armor of men, so as to not raise suspicion. The smith weighs the requirements and fiddles with the sapphire hanging around his neck by a silver chain. "Aye" —Mott nods— "I'll forge you a set of armor, Lady Stark."
"Thank you." She says again, offering a coin purse with more than enough to cover half the cost upfront. Tobho Mott accepts the payment and sees Anya and Jory from the shop back to the Street of Steel.
Anya stops after passing through the Red Keep gate and looks upward to the Tower of the Hand. "Jory" —she reaches for him and rests a hand on his cheek— "promise me you'll protect the girls." What's about to happen worries her. She knows they're in danger, and Ned does too.
Jory Cassel frowns and takes her face into his hands, thumbs tracing over her cheekbones and the tiny scar near her left temple —he still remembers the day she got it chasing after Bran on the rooftops of Winterfell. Her eyes slip shut with his touch, a quiet sigh escaping her parted lips. "You know I will," he tells her. Anya smiles and meets his dark gaze with a flutter in her chest. "I'll protect you too," Jory breathes, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. She curls her fingers into his woolen tunic and holds tight to him as a gust of cold wind sweeps past them —a reminder of the North, of home— but it only carries the scent of sweat, smoke, and shit.
Soon though, the snow and ice will come, and southron lords will freeze in their stone halls. The Starks are always right about one thing...Winter is coming.
edited:
July 30, 2022