Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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THE GREY GULL pulls to port in Maidenpool after five-and-ten days at sea. A fraction of the time it would have taken her to venture south by horse and by foot. Borcas and Luke of Longtown help her into a dinghy and row the boat to the stone docks —it feels good to have something solid under her feet instead of the swaying deck boards and swinging hammock.

Remembering her manners, Anya thanks the two men of the Night's Watch, and the last thing the black brothers do is hand her Cotter Pyke's payment for her brown mare, Almond. They hadn't a way to get the horse onto the galley, so she had no other choice but to abandon her mount at the Wall. She can purchase a new horse in Maidenpool to take her to Quiet Isle.  

Anya buys a silver mount and does not tarry in the city any longer than she must —eager to leave the crowded markets and streets behind lest someone recognize her and rumor spread that the ghost of Anya Stark now haunts the Seven Kingdoms. The pink stone walls of the port city fade behind her on the road and give way to the gentle hills and old forests. The crags and hills of the North are capped with the first of the coming winter snows, but the Riverlands remain green in the places not blackened and ravaged by the war.

At first light, she saddles her new mount and sets out under a clear sky, staying close to the southern edge of the Bay of Crabs along the paths and roads. For most of the time, she's the only one taking the route west. The only other souls are those scattered in small fishing boats, barely visible over the tall grasses and wetland shrubs. Her silent reprieve comes to an end when she hears the thudding of horse hooves in the distance. Anya glances over her shoulder and sees another rider approaching —only a few yards back now. She spurs her silver mare to a faster pace and tries to veer the road and into the trees, but a dark horse and rider appear at her side. "Dangerous times for a woman to travel alone," the man notes —there's no malice in the words.

"I can manage," Anya replies, easing her mount to a faster trot. But her new and unwanted companion keeps pace, not taking the hint. She glimpses him —deep brown hair, dark eyes, and a crooked smile framed with a short, unkempt beard. His armor is polished, but she cannot make out if he wears a sigil or what his intentions might be.

"Where are you going, my lady?" He asks —the question is enough to tell Anya he is of noble birth.

"The Quiet Isle," she answers, speaking true and hoping the idea of a pilgrimage to such a holy site will be deemed too sacrosanct for a stranger to interrupt. 

"That's the way I'm going," he tells her with the beginnings of a kindly smile, realizing for a time their paths will align. "Fairmarket for myself, though." Anya glimpses the wandering knight again, her gaze icy and distrustful. "Surely you wouldn't object to the company," the man says.

He seems sincere enough. Anya can tell by his manners, speech, and attire he's no beggar but a proper man of the gentry —a knight. And one who still appears to hold his oaths and views in high regard. She keeps her gaze on the road ahead and grits her teeth. I do not need his help, I do not need his protection, and I do not need him, she tells herself. But now it is likely she will not be able to rid herself of him. "Your name, good ser?" She finally asks, seeing as though there's a scarce chance he will let her be now.

"Hyle Hunt," he answers, smiling. She knows House Hunt. They call the Reach home and are sworn to House Tarly. He's quite the ways from the thick forests of the Red Mountain's foothills, though, and it makes Anya wary of his intentions in war-ravaged the Riverlands. She means to give a false name —perhaps the name of a bastard from the Crownlands or Riverlands or the name of a minor house, but she's not given a chance to craft the lie. "And I remember you upsetting every archer in Westeros at the Hand's Tourney, Lady Stark." Her grey eyes turn to ice, and her fingers find the hilt of Dark Sister. "I mean no harm," Hyle Hunt quickly adds. The royal court claims Lady Anya Stark is dead, but the whispers of little birds hold more truth. She takes the reins in both hands again.