DRAGONSTONE WAS AN imposing fortress built for militaristic means and intimidation. The dark stone was harsh against the grey-white sea cliffs and green grass, shaped by fire and sorcery. Even from the ship, Anya could see the dragon motifs placed around the castle. From a distance they seemed to be live creatures, moving and writhing but she knew they were nothing more than stone. The island grew larger as the ship drew closer to the bay and for the first time in many years, Anya felt the breath leave her lungs in awe. Kings Landing was a marvel of engineering, no doubt, but Dragonstone? Dragonstone was beautiful, the way Harrenhal should have been.
From the side of the ship, the captain and crew ushered them all into small dinghies to row ashore. But while the castle and dark beach were breathtaking the real sight to marvel at was that of two large dragons landing on the top of the cliff. One with rippling black scales, the other with green and bronze. Drogon and Rhaegal are what Daenerys named them. One after her late husband, the other after her brother.
Several people came to gather on the dark sand beach as the setting sun painted the sky with warm hues, unfitting for the impending winter. Anya suspected them to be Daenerys's advisors and captains. Most wore relieved expressions mixed with equal amounts of sadness and grief. Sandor Clegane took Anya's hand, breaking her from trance and thought, pulling her from the small boat.
He looked more battle-worn since the last time they spoke and to him, she looked more withered than he last remembered. Tyrion Lannister looked up at Anya Whent with wide mismatched eyes, his mouth slightly agape —not believing the sight before him. She is a walking corpse, he thought, but that wasn't the right way to describe the sister of Eddard Stark. "Lady Anya," he sighed her name and reached out to take her hand, now hardened with callouses and small scabs that had yet to heal.
"Tyrion," she greeted, fondness lingering in her voice. Regardless of the miserable times in Kings Landing, the Imp had always managed to make it a little more bearable with his wit and love of reading. Two things Anya Whent valued in a friend. "I am most pleased to learn you have survived." Rumors over the land told her the Imp was dead, that he killed his nephew and father and disappeared in a puff of smoke, that somehow he had found his way across the Narrow Sea.
Tyrion Lannister let himself smile despite the solemn circumstances surrounding their sudden reunion. "As am I."
Daenerys picked up her skirts and took a seat next to Anya Whent in Aegon's Garden. Tall dark trees surrounded them, pines and cedars that blocked out much of the sun. "Your grace," Anya greeted, but her focus never left the pale yellow rose she held between her fingers. Scattered around her feet were petals of red, yellow, and pink with barren thorny stems.
"Your father was a cruel man," the Dragon Queen said suddenly, catching her off guard.
Anya pricked her thumb on one of the small thorns and watched as a bead of dark blood formed and slid down into her palm. "He was," she affirmed. Walter Whent was not a kind man but in comparison to Aerys Targaryen he would have seemed a proper knight, "as was your father." Dany bristled at the mention —she was not her father, nor was she her brothers.
"Harrenhal," she said suddenly, pushing silver strands of hair behind her ear.
"That was House Whent's seat," Anya told her, though she suspected that Daenerys already knew that, "and where I was born." She had been born on a spring morning, with the scent of fresh cut roses and blood lingering in the air. Shella Whent had almost died birthing her and it was something her father made sure she never forgot.
Daenerys Targaryen clasped her hands in her lap. "If I am to help the North in this war," she began in a serious and sincere tone, "then those who cannot fight will need a refuge further south."
Anya frowned, even if she wanted to take back the ruined castle the men who had sworn their swords to her cause were leagues away, or dead. Though the castle itself had surely fallen into the cruel hands of time. The walls were worse than she had remembered as a child. Even the Great Hall had holes in the roof. It would take an army just to make it habitable again. "It's in ruins, Daenerys." A deep sadness had engulfed her tone and expression. It had always made her sad no one cared enough to restore Harrenhal to its once grandeur, all she had were the stories and history.
"I have heard the tale of the castle's great size and its curse," Dany mused, still hopeful, "there must be time to make some repairs." Anya looked back down at the rose within her grasp then let it fall to the overgrown cobble path with the others. "You are the Lady of Harrenhal, it is yours by right of birth." It was not as if she did not know that, but it still did not feel natural to be named that. Part of her was still Anya Stark, part of her belonged in the North, at Winterfell, not in the South. Daenerys reached out and seized Anya's hands. "Take it back." It nigh sounded like a command.
"Before I went beyond the Wall that's what I wanted to do. Now I only wish that the people I love will endure the Long Night to come," she sighed and looked at the small scabs forming on her fingertips where the thorns had pricked her skin. "But no living person deserves the fate that comes with the Walkers." Not even Cersei Lannister. Anya Whent would take back Harrenhal for herself and for every living soul that would take refuge under those ruins.
"Tell me how many men will it take to reclaim Harrenhal." The castle had almost been abandoned when last she crossed paths with the dark decaying stone, the War of Kings had ended and so had the need for a proper outpost at Harrenhal.
"If it is still garrisoned by the Lannisters for Petyr Baelish, I suspect that thirty men could do it." Thirty good men would be more than enough to clean out the few soldiers that had been left behind. Anya already had twenty who pledged their swords to her.
Daenerys nodded and spun the white and grey pearl ring around her finger. Anya suspected it was a nervous habit, just as she would fiddle with the ends of her hair. "Then it is done. I will have forty Unsullied and Dothraki placed in your charge. After this meeting in King's Landing, you will ride for Harrenhal." It seemed surreal to have the assurance that her birth home would soon be hers, and restored.
Anya stood and ran her palms down the front of her breeches, there were two Northmen that she wanted at her side when the time came to storm the gate. "Would you allow me to use a raven or two?" The Dragon Queen's lips turned upward into a small smile, she nodded.
The sea dragon tower overlooked the Narrow Sea unlike its twin that looked over Blackwater Bay, its winding staircase reminded her of the crumbling towers of Harrenhal as she ascended them. Halfway up she could begin hearing the coarse call of the ravens and doves. Like Winterfell, the old maester's chambers lie beneath the rookery, abandoned now for some time despite the papers and letters scattered around the desk and tables.
She pulled two pieces of fresh parchment from a half-opened drawer and dipped the nib of a turkey feather into a pot of ink that she hoped had not dried from disuse. It felt odd to write again in truth, it had been ages since such duties were expected of her and when the nib touched the surface of the parchment, she pressed too hard and it split, splattering ink across old letters and her own tunic and face. Swallowing her frustration, Anya picked up another quill and dipped it into the ink, this time mindful of her heavy hand, and carefully the words flowed with the same eloquence that had always been in her nature.
Anya knocked only once on the stone and wooden door that led to another guest chamber before it swung inward. "Aunt Anya," Jon greeted, stepping aside to allow her entrance into the dark room. She wrung her hands together as she moved closer to the great stone fireplace. "I wanted to speak with you," she began, but then a heavy sigh escaped her lips, "but now, in truth, I've forgotten what I meant to say." That wasn't entirely truthful though, there were hundreds of things she wanted to talk to Jon about.
Jon poured two glasses of wine and passed one of the silvery goblets to Anya. She glanced down at the blood-colored liquid and saw her pale and gaunt reflection looking back at her with dark eyes. "I'm sorry," he said suddenly, drawing her from her thoughts and back to him, "for what I said on the ship, I should never have said what I did. I know it doesn't change the fact that you're my aunt, you're family."
The wine burned her throat, but she took two large gulps. "It's okay," she responded in a soft tone, "you needed to know the truth." It was time that all the Starks knew the truth about her lineage, but ravens wouldn't do, she needed to be able to tell Arya, Sansa, and Bran in person.
Silence fell over them and for perhaps the first time, Anya truly did not know what to say to him. So much had changed, they both had changed so much in the few years since leaving Winterfell. Jon had undoubtedly changed for the better, but for herself, she could not say. "Daenerys told me that she's sending you to reclaim Harrenhal."
That caught her attention, she looked up with the most ephemeral of smiles. "Yes." The thought that perhaps the great castle could be remembered for something other than Harren Hoare's cruelty and the dragonfire that ruined it filled Anya with a strange type of warmth. It wasn't her home, per se, but in time it could be. With the coming war and winter, it would soon become a home for hundreds. "It will be a refuge for those truly unable to fight."
Jon winced when he stretched his arm out to pick up the crystal decanter of wine. "Do they still hurt?" she asked, meaning his scars. They were deep, angry gouges that still looked as if they could be set to bleeding again at the gentlest of touches. He shook his head, then opened his mouth to begin explaining how he'd gotten them, but it was an explanation that was not needed.
"Davos told me," she explained. Davos had told her when they had first stripped the sodden furs from his back after riding hard to the wall. He had told her that the brothers of the Watch had named him a traitor for aiding the Wildlings and had put not one but several knives into his chest, but then there was the Red Witch. She didn't know what to think of the tale, but she didn't deny its truth. If she ever met Melisandre of Asshai then she would thank her.
"I miss him," Jon said suddenly, looking down into an empty pewter goblet. Anya looked up at him with furrowed brows. "Father, I mean," he added and it made him sound like a small boy.
"As do I," she breathed. She missed Ned, Brandon, Robb, Rickard, Catelyn, and every Stark she had once known. "I miss Winterfell before it all went to shit," she said with a dry, humorless laugh, "when you and Robb would climb the castle walls with Bran following behind. Arya would sneak out at night to play swords with Jory and I. Rickon would still be a babe at Catelyn's breast, and Sansa, she would have her dolls and pretty dresses and sing songs of true knights." She would have given anything to have just one more day of that calm, peaceful life.
"We can't go back though," Jon told her. Anya sat her empty goblet down, "No," she said. "The past is already written, the ink dry." The past had been written in blood, they could either remember or reread it, but not rewrite it.
"It's late," Jon said whilst turning to look out the narrow window situated in thick stone, "and we depart early in the morn." It was a days' sail to King's Landing and there was still much to be done before departing Dragonstone. She nodded and stood, brushing down the skirts of her dress before bidding her nephew a good sleep. Anya slipped from the room and turned down the hall with a heavy sigh.
"Follow me," the evening meal had drawn to a close, night and snow fell over the island. Anya took Sandor's hand and pulled him along toward the garden. The gardens of Dragonstone had survived the worst of the Baratheons and the ravages of time, though still, its neglect was evident.
The legend said the castle was built with the heat of the earth beneath it and one-day Dragonmont would reawaken and spew fire and smoke. Anya was inclined to believe the legends, after all, areas of the island reeked of brimstone. Though until that day, there was still much to be enjoyed on the secluded island.
The air was heavy and humid with steam rising from the small pond beneath the canopy of tall trees. It nigh reminded her of the hot spring in the Glass Gardens at Winterfell. When she had been younger, there were several nights that came to mind where she and Jory would sneak off from a feast or event early. That was years ago, though, and now instead of an almost childish infatuation, there was something more than that, something built slowly and built to endure.
Sandor had followed her in silence. In truth, he would follow her anywhere, even into the eye of a storm, or the heart of a raging battle. He would follow her, he would protect her, he would cherish her. Anya's slim and calloused fingers slipped from his hand as she stepped to the edge of the hot spring. The water was warm to the touch, like a freshly drawn bath that had a handful of minutes to cool. Sighing, Anya stood, dropping her dress and inhibitions to the ground in a single fluid motion.
She stepped down into the water and looked over her shoulder with a raised brow, ignoring how his eyes took in the full length of her exposed flesh. "Aren't you going to join me?" Anya asked with a short chuckle. She ducked under the water and reemerged looking like a mermaid and suddenly it didn't seem so hard to believe the Grey King would have taken one for a wife.
His clothes had been left in a crumpled pile next to the puddle of silk and wool. Sandor Clegane let out a small, barely noticeable contented sigh as he traced the constellation of freckles at the curve of her shoulder with a cautious hand and let his fingers thread into the loose waves at the back of her neck.
Anya leaned her head back on his shoulder and glanced upward at the scarred half of his face, a sad song on her lips. "Many lovers I've called from the ships that I see," she sang, Rhaegar Targaryen had sung those verses to the court of Harrenhal during the tourney on his silver-stringed lyre and all the ladies wept, "but I've drowned everyone in the deep, salt sea."