Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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"THANK YOU," MYRCELLA says, clutching the books Anya hands down from the ladder to her chest —a copy of the Kingdoms of the Sky. It's the first day of the new week, and that means she gets to spend time in the library in the morning before her lessons start —sometimes, even Tommen comes with her.

"You're very welcome, Myrcella," Anya replies, settling on a mound of goose-down pillows brought to the library at the princess's request. It's their reading nook, nestled away in a corner where sunlight shone during the day and moonlight at night —regardless of the time of day, one could always make out the words on each page. She opens a tome about dragons, a lengthy account of all the dragons and riders the Seven Kingdoms has ever known.

It is a quiet reprieve away from duties and expectations. Anya looks up from her book after some time, her attention flitting to the princess —she's far more personable than her mother. Not long after, Myrcella grows restless and sits up straighter. "What is your favorite book?" The princess asks. Last time it had been about Winterfell and the Wall and if the Others were real.

Anya closes her book and sets it aside, pretending to contemplate which of the many she's read is her favorite. There's only one that comes to mind, with its fading pages and loose binding. The title no longer legible. A History of Harrenhal —her birthplace and birthright. She wagers she can recite the history from House Hoare to her own house nigh word for word. "It's a book on Harrenhal's history," Anya answers. "I cannot recall the author, though."

She can see the chill creep down the princess's spine when she shudders. "That place frightens me," Myrcella admits, her voice small and meek. Anya smiles. Harrenhal frightened her as a child too. "Any person with half a mind should fear Harrenhal to some degree." The castle is not a kind place with its decaying walls and high towers —she's heard the winds howl like the wailing of ghosts too.

"What happened to it?" Myrcella asks.

A curse that has lasted for three centuries. "Ill luck and destruction. Every house that has ever claimed Harrenhal as its seat has suffered from what people now call Harren's Curse," Anya tells her. "Tragedy befalls them in inconceivable ways. Maegor the Cruel killed every member of House Harroway he could find. Then Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin Strong were burned alive during the Dance of the Dragons." She remembers swimming in the God's Eye as a girl, looking for Prince Daemon and Caraxes. Anya cannot say what curse befell her family. Perhaps it was the death of the sons Lord Walter would have rather had in place of a daughter.

"But would you not have liked to see it in all its glory?" She asks the princess. "Imagine towers that climb into the sky and a great hall so large nearly everyone in the Riverlands could have a seat at a table. And the godswood, an ancient grove whose branching trees had never known the desecrating ax." It's easy to forget Harrenhal was not always a ruined fortress. Myrcella smiles. Described like that, Harrenhal seems like a place any lady would dream of living. "But they say the last brick was laid when Aegon the Conqueror landed on the shores of Westeros."

Anya's always imagined what it would be like to restore the great castle to its glory —to create a beacon of fellowship among the Riverlands and mend the damaged reputation of Harrenhal and the houses who claimed it as their seat over the years. One day Harrenhal will be mine, Anya thinks, by force if need be, and it shall no longer be the cursed castle.

Midday comes, and soon one of the Septas will come in search of Myrcella for her lessons. Anya marks the page of her book, and the princess does the same, tucking it away on a table for their next reading session. She follows Anya from the library and to one of the courtyards where Joffrey and the Hound watch Tommen practice.

The boy sits astride his pony with a small lance to strike against a wooden target hanging from a pole. When he rides forth but fails to strike his mark, his brother's mocking laughter fills the air. The master-at-arms and his lady wife resettle Tommen on the pony and give the young prince a lighter lance. But Joffrey grows disinterested and skulks off as Anya and Myrcella come into the courtyard. "Come along, Dog," he says, passing his sister without greeting or glance.