Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

ғoυr

CELEBRATORY FEAST GO on well into the night. They drink to Lord Eddard Stark and the new king, Robert Baratheon. Catelyn and little Robb retire for the evening, and soon after, Anya follows for Jon's sake. But lingering in the courtyard is a face Anya hasn't realized she'd missed so much until now. "Jory!" He turns with a grin on his war-roughened face, but his lessons are not forgotten, and he bends at the waist —a quick and knightly gesture. But Anya surges forward, wrapping her arms around his middle. Jory fumbles to return her embrace before she steps back, his heart pounding like the war drum of a giant. "I am glad to find you well," she says with a smile.

Jory Cassel's cheeks turn red as the wine Anya had with her meal. "Thank you, my lady," he replies, not meeting her gaze. He's quick to excuse himself to rejoin the festivities.

Benjen pushes himself off a wooden post in the shadows and finishes the ale in his cup. "He fancies you." It is no secret amongst the people of Winterfell. Jory and Anya are close in age and, for a time, were scarcely seen parted from one another. He still remembers the moment he and his brothers first realized Jory's feelings for Anya —it was when she knocked him on his arse quicker than Brandon could blink. Benjen teased her afterward, saying he'd seen the hearts grow in Jory's eyes.

"Hush," she chides, her own cheeks flushed with pink. There's a fondness in her heart for Jory that does not feel like the love she bore for her brothers. Benjen's laugh is quiet, and he offers his sister the crook of his arm, leading her past the glass garden and to the weirwood tree with its long and solemn face.

For a moment, they stand in silence, paying their respects to the ancient tree and to the Old Gods, but then Benjen turns to stand before his sister and takes her hands. "Anya," he starts, a grim determination settling into his voice, "after my next nameday, I've chosen to take the black." He knows his sister is not one for excess formalities or flowery conversations, so he's blunt about it all, perhaps too blunt.

Anya's smile fades, her grey eyes turning from soft snow to sharp ice. The unyielding determination in her glare could rival Ned's. "No," she says, voice unwavering despite the sudden news. Benjen's nameday was fast approaching. They wouldn't have much time left together at all. She shakes her head, banishing the tears pricking at her eyes.

"Yes," he reprimands. "Ned is Lord of Winterfell and Robb is his heir." She knows this well already. "I cannot stay here and do nothing for the rest of my life. The Night's Watch is an ancient and honorable guild." Benjen squeezes her hands as though to tell her it'll be all right, that he'll be protecting her and little Jon.

She lifts her chin, accepting her brother's decision. In times like this, she nigh hated being a woman —there were too many limitations on what she could do in life based on the worthless slit between her thighs. But then something else overcomes her, an immense feeling of despair. "Why do you have to leave me?" Anya asks, her throat tight, voice strangled. "Everyone either dies or leaves me." She knows it is the truth. Lyanna, Brandon, Lord Rickard. Even if Ned returned from the war, he was no longer the same boy who left. The handmaidens she befriended as a girl were sent away by Lord Walter. It still makes her blood boil to think about what he did to the butcher's boy. She always played with wooden swords with him in the courtyard. Anya Whent knows she carries the alleged curse of Harrenhal with her, and if that is the case, then she hates to know what would become of Catelyn and Robb and young Jon Snow.

Benjen wipes away Anya's tears —she hadn't realized she was crying. "I'll be a Ranger," he tells her, attempting to offer consolation to ease her heart and mind. "I'll have to return to Winterfell at times. This isn't goodbye, sister."

Anya sniffles, thinking of the stories Old Nan would tell. "But the White Walkers and wildlings–" Benjen cuts her off with a faint chuckle and leans forward to press a gentle kiss upon her brow. "Are dead," he assures her. "And any well-trained swordsman can kill a wildling. You know that." She does.