Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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THE SUN IS blistering by midday, but Anya finds a place under a shaded canopy in the gardens where she can read —wanting a break from the stuffy and dusty air of the library. She's chosen a detailed recollection of the history of Westeros from before the War of Conquest to occupy her time. The title is almost worn off, the ink fading in places, and some of the pages are ripped and frayed at the edges. Age has taken its toll, but it both entertains her in the present and grounds her in the past. Anya always told Jon and Robb those who did not know history are doomed to repeat it —and the mistakes will be paid in blood.

Unlike the children, the First Men farmed the land and raised up ringforts and villages. And in so doing, they took to chopping down the weirwood trees, including those with carved faces, and for this, the children attacked them, leading to hundreds of years of war. She's seen the decimation across the Riverlands, even the great godswood at Harrenhal had stumps of weirwoods, but the greatest with its twisted and haunted face remained. Anya Stark knows this history well. She read about it when she was still Anya Whent and learned it by heart under Winterfell's maester.

Jaime Lannister slows as he approaches Anya, then stops in front of her. He wears the gilded armor of the Kingsguard with a crisp white cloak dusting along the stone paths —hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The kingslayer watches her place a strip of parchment to mark the page, and it reminds him of Tyrion. As infuriating as the Imp is, Jaime cannot help but miss his little brother. "Ser Jaime," Anya greets, polite despite her clear annoyance with his interruption.

"Lady Anya," he says in turn, lowering his head in a knightly gesture. "You're beginning to look like a southron lady," Jaime notes, looking over her sendal teal-green dress —the neckline embroidered with gold and silver thread. It's odd, not seeing her in greys and blues. "I've heard you're fond of dogs." His statement sounds like a question. Anya's brows furrow, she means to speak, but he continues. "May I suggest visiting the kennels? There's a new litter of pups." If Joffrey hasn't got ahold of them yet. "Or perhaps it's a different kind of dog you're fond of."

She wants to smite him where he stands for the insinuation, but it would not be right for her to strike the queen's brother. Jaime Lannister's lips quirk into a smile when he sees how red her face turns and the ire pooling in her cold eyes, but he steps back and gives a contemptuous half-bow. "Pardon, my lady, duty calls." Then he is gone.

She startles at his unannounced appearance, then calms her racing heart immediately. "Jory," Anya smiles, feeling her anger ebb too. "Will you walk with me?" She asks. He nods and offers the crook of his arm. They pass through the garden maze in comfortable silence, eventually reaching a pier jutting into the Narrow Sea.

"Is something wrong?" Jory asks, placing his hand over hers. He's scarcely seen her so het up in all the years they've known each other.

Anya shakes her head. "No," she sighs, "just needed some fresh air, is all." It's a lie, and Jory knows it. There are a hundred things wrong in King's Landing —the people, the lies, the debauchery, the smell— and so much could be resolved by going north, returning to Winterfell. Home. "I don't like it here," Anya admits, and Jory squeezes her hand. I want to go home.

Below the towering red walls of the Keep is a stretch of rocky shoreline that gives way to a sandy cove secluded from the city. Anya steals Jory away, and he offers no protest. Unlike the rest of King's Landing, this small space remains unpolluted, almost pristine. Jory scans the horizon and the open water laying before him. There's only a handful of ships —all leagues from shore. Anya sits to watch the waves break, and Jory sits next to her. After a moment, she leans her head on his shoulder, relaxing more when his arm wraps around her waist. "How did you find this place?" He finally asks.