"But he who dares not grasp the thorn
Should never crave the rose."
― Anne Brontë
All men must die. All roses must wilt.
There is a streak of wildness behind steel eyes. Two distinctly Stark features, yet they belong to Anya Whent. A Southe...
THE DAYS WERE shorter and colder now. A biting wind was always blowing. Howling inside the stone walls and out. Snow fell in thick blankets, suffocating what little greenery remained around the castle.
Against the dark stone and white snow, it was the red leaves of the weirwood tree that demanded the most attention. A display of the strength and resilience of the Old Gods. The Lady of Harrenhal frequented the godswood often. She did not pray, but being near the old tree made her feel connected to her nieces and nephews at Winterfell.
The Hall of a Hundred Hearths had been repaired in full, as had the barracks and the lower halves of the five towers. Stone once ruined by dragonfire could never truly be mended, but the image of the great castle was changing. No one could deny that.
Anya Whent joined both Erac Cleaber and Galbart Glover on the outer ramparts of Harrenhal. Repairing the walls would be the next order of business now that the people had good shelter. That had been her focus since retaking the castle, caring for and protecting those that could not fight. Thus far, Anya had done a fine job of coordinating everything. Ruling came naturally to her.
The Northmen lowered their heads as she came to stand between them. She was a vision to behold in a plain dress of burgundy wool and a large, fur-lined, black cloak. The cold wind had given her skin a pink flush and against her honeyed hair, her lips looked blood red. Anya drew in a long, slow breath of the crisp air. Something about the cold air made her feel more alive.
She glanced up at the Northman in all black. Erac Cleaber was not a member of the Night's Watch, but he wore their colors well. "Will you do something for me, Erac?"
He knelt, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ready and willing to do her bidding. "I am yours to command."
Her gaze trailed back to the white fields that lay between the castle walls and the Kingsroad. "There was a small cottage and barn over the Blackwater. Just over six leagues northwest of the Capital," Anya paused and looked down at the dark stone, voice trailing off, "my mother was there."
She didn't have to finish the request for him to know what she wished for. Erac rose and took her gloved hands into his. The supple deerskin dyed a pale rose color was a sharp contrast the boiled black leather ones that had lasted him many years. "I will find your mother," he promised, "and bring her to Harrenhal."
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Sandor Clegane trailed behind Anya Whent as she spoke to one of the Maesters that had come with House Syder from the land surrounding the Saltpans. Alara Syder had been one of the first to seek refuge in the crumbling walls of Harrenhal. She had brought her entire household to the safety that Anya claimed to be able to provide. For now, everyone could claim to be safe.
"We have enough grain to withstand seven moons at this capacity," Arrel informed her, looking down at the scroll he held. Taking inventory was a weekly occurrence now that the snow was becoming thicker.
