"But he that dares not grasp the thorn,

Should never crave the rose."

-Anne Brontë

The stories were all so fascinating, a tale of handsome knights and fair ladies, of dragons and bravely fought wars. It always amazed the girl how simple words could paint such elaborate and beautiful pictures on the canvas of her mind. The girl, no more than eight at the time, scurried around the library of Harrenhal looking for her next read, the next great adventure to immerse herself in. At such a young age, she had already lived and died a hundred lifetimes and that was the magic of books. She was a lady, as the old Septa and her mother had reminded her many times when she would stray into the courtyard with a wooden sword in hand. According to their wisdom and advice ladies did not partake in such frivolous activities. For that she devoted many hours to reading, it was the closest she would come to engaging in swordfights and slaying dragons.

Two short years passed, now she was a girl of ten, and nothing had changed, though perhaps she was becoming more trouble for her poor mother, still expressing more interest in fighting with stable and butcher boys than taking her dancing lessons. Her lust for adventure was insatiable in many ways, sometimes she would sneak off during the night and climb the trees just outside of the castle's walls pretending that she could see the entity of Westeros. Other nights she took to God's Eye Lake, pretending to be some sea creature of faraway lands.

Today the girl read about the history of her home, finally finding the courage to read a true account that more so belonged in her fictitious books than in the history of Harrenal. She had only just turned the page that mentioned the size and might of Balerion the Black Dread when the shrill voice of the Septa called out her name. "Anya!" The little Lady ignored the calls and continued reading, enamored by the way the dragon was described. She imagined a creature who was large enough the swallow whole towns with his shadow, with teeth like swords, claws like daggers, and wings so strong and wide the winds of a hurricane were produced on land. Septa Nyla had come to the door of the library, not even hesitating to open the large doors.

The faithful woman was taken aback by the girls appearance, still clad in a stained nightshirt, Anya was lying next to a dying fire with an open book. Her honeyed curls looked more like straw for a bird's nest than anything and her reluctance to leave the library had ensured that any of the remained soot from when the castle was burned had transferred from the stone to her skin. "By the gods' child, you've only an hour to prepare for the tourney!" The daughter of Lord Walter and Shella Whent sat up with crossed arms.

"I don't want to go," she protested, a dangerous defiance appeared in her steel colored eyes. Septa Nyla sat next to the girl and stroked back the tangled mess of hair. "Your father is hosting this tournament in your honor, child. You must go."

Anya looked up at the Septa with furrowed and angry brows, "No, he's not. He's doing it to boast about our strength in hopes to be on better terms with King Aerys." There were many people who looked at the little Lady as if she were nothing more than a pretty face, unintelligible about the politics of the realm, yet in the sentence, all those claims would have been disproven. Septa Nyla frowned and tipped Anya's pert chin up, "Whatever the true reason may be, you are the queen of love and beauty, it would be a shame if the world could not see such a face."

The girl looked back down at the open book in front of her, "I'd rather read," Septa Nyla looked at the girl with a sense of pity, she was a good child, but her soul was far too wild to be tamed. Septa Nyla picked up the thick tome Anya had been reading, marked the page, and set it aside in a place where she could easily find it again. The little Lady knew better than to argue and reluctantly she trailed beside the frail old woman. Knights, singers, jesters, and lesser houses from around the kingdom had come to Harrenhal, Anya had watched them arrive day and night for the past week, yet her books were much more interesting. A book could never let her down; life, however, could. Her young chambermaid, Kaela, braided and curled Anya's hair into a coiffed style that was typical for Southern ladies, with extravagant twists and numerous pins to hold each strand in place. It exerted a painful amount of pressure on her scalp.

A heavy knock on the wooden door of her room was a forlorn sign that her father was on the other side. Kaela opened the door, curtsying before the Lord of the House, Lord Whent did not even have to command her to leave the room; she did so in fearful silence. Walter Whent took his daughter's chin between a rough thumb and forefinger, ungently. "You will sit perfectly still and only speak when spoken to, remember your lessons and manners. If you do something to embarrass this family I will burn your precious books. Am I clear, Anya?" Over the past two years she had become accustomed to such threats and to save her books, the only true friends she had in the lonely castle walls, she always acted like a perfect little Lady when the time came.

"Yes, father." Pleased with his daughter's reply, Lord Whent dropped a crown of white roses on her head and left. Lord Whent was a harsh man, not intentionally as her mother had once tried to explain after his words had sent a girl of seven crying to her chambers at a summer feast after spilling her cup of watered down wine, but due to circumstance. The Lord of Harrenhal had no living sons, Shella Whent had borne him four sons before the birth of her beloved daughter, though none had lived to see the tender age of ten. A winter had claimed two, a strange sickness another, the last son born died before his first name day. From the pain of loss, they were given a daughter, healthy and strong, but a daughter is not what Lord's wished to have. Daughters could not keep a House's name or legacy, for that a father needed sons.

With a solemn air surrounding the small girl, she followed her mother to the central stands to be seated next to Elia Martell, the Dornish ladylove that had been betrothed and married to the Targaryen prince. As was common of tournaments, a mêlée was held first. Men wearing their house colors and sigils fought chaotically with blunted swords. An hour passed, Anya shifted in her seat which brought her father's disapproving gaze to her, but she righted herself and smiled as Elia complimented the crown of flowers that adorned her hair. A second hour passed before the first champion of the tournament was named, it had been a member of House Toyne, across his breast was a winged heart, black on gold, and in victory, he had cried the House's words: "Fly High, Fly Far."

The second day was far more exciting than the first, three champions were named in the jousting competition that had taken place, a Frey, a Blount, and a Haigh knight had all taken a prize. While the joust itself had been average and well performed it was the final knight of the day that caused a stir. The Knight of the Laughing Tree had appeared on the lists, challenging the three champions. The knight was small, short of stature no doubt, perhaps even stunted and wore armor that was ill-fitting and mismatched. He had worn no house colors or sigils that could place which house the mysterious knight hailed from, the only identifier was upon his dented shield. A heart tree of the old gods, a white weirwood with a laughing red face. The true upset came when the knight unhorsed the three champions with a startling amount of ease and left soon after, hardly accepting any praise.

Anya was curious and as her father had demised her to ready for the feast, she caught sight of the mysterious knight and followed the lone figure as he entered the Stark tent. Lyanna Stark was laughing to herself, unaware of her trailing shadow until she removed the old helm and pulled her dark braid free, "You're a girl! And you participated in the tournament! And won!" Anya exclaimed with sheer disbelief, she had never believed such a thing could happen until today, until now.

A panicked look came across the Stark girl's face, she couldn't have been much older than Anya, maybe by four or five years. "Please don't tell my brothers, my father will not be happy to learn of such a thing," the Whent girl could only nod, still awestruck by discovering such a thing. Lyanna smiled at the girl and knelt, still in the mismatched armor but hardly anyone would think to look for her in Lord Stark's tent. "I'm Lyanna Stark, and you must be Anya Whent," unsure of what to say, Anya nodded, but the Northern girl spoke again and the Southern girl's face glowed at the suggestion. "Could you show to the library after the day's festivities are over? I've heard Harrenhal's collection is much more spectacular than Winterfell's."

When the Knight of the Laughing Tree did not come the next day, King Aerys was wroth and sent his son, the prince, to search for the mysterious knight and bring him to court. Rhaegar returned to the tournament, not an hour after the search had begun, he carried the painted shield of the knight as it was found hanging just outside the castle walls in a dying tree. Anya had seen Lyanna wink and smile at her when the discovery was announced, the little Lady had to stop herself from laughing aloud.

The last day of the tourney had come, the events of the previous nine days had all been a blur. Every night there had been feasts with so much food that Anya could not bear the thought of seeing another roast boar in her life, nor did she fancy the thought of having to drink more watered down wine and sit by her mother and father's sides the entire night, reciting the pretty words the Septa had taught her like a pretty little mockingbird. Compliments given to her beauty and discussions among the Lords in attendance frightened her, especially when they proposed the idea of joining houses through marriage. She found herself looking at her mother, pleading that she would not allow it.

Though a peculiar sight had caught her attention on the third day, she had seen three members of the House Clegane, a father and his two sons, each wearing a golden surcoat with three snarling dogs. The eldest son was a hulking boy with more brawn than brains undoubtedly, the younger tried his hardest to conceal a terrible scar that covered half his face but he couldn't have been much older than her. Gathering the courage, she asked Lothor, her protector about the boy, he knew little of the incident, only saying that the father claimed that the boy's bedding had caught fire.

Anya sat with her ankles crossed and hands folded in her lap, a new dress had been made for her to wear on the final day. Satin dyed to be the color of sage swathed her petite, girlish frame, the design itself was simple, but the beauty was in the details. Crystals and pearls were sewn in the shapes of bats, only when the sun shone could you see them. It was the sigil of her house. The last day of the joust would see a new queen of love and beauty crowned, or the title would remain with her until the next great tourney. While her title rested on the knights appointed by her father, for a maiden nearing eleven she looked the part.

Prince Rhaegar was, even to her young eyes, a handsome man. He embodied every quality of the gallant knights she had read about. Fair and brave, kind and talented. He was to compete today, many had already stated the prince would undoubtedly win. For that Anya worried, she was not vain or possessive of the title that had been given to her but she feared what her father would say or do should the title be lost to another. The first of the pairs to compete was the prince and Brandon Stark, within three runs Rhaegar had broken all three lances and on the third joust, he had knocked the firstborn of Lord Rickard off his saddle. Ser Dayne and Royce were each easily defeated with well-struck blows, the last of the knights to come and challenge the prince was Ser Barriston Selmy, he was the knight charged by Lord Whent to protect his daughter's honor and title.

It had taken five rounds before Ser Barriston was unhorsed; when the prince was named Champion of the Tourney, he was given a crown of blue roses to give to the lady he named to be the queen of love and beauty. Naturally, the gathered audience expected him to name his wife, but with a scandalous move, Prince Rhaegar named Lyanna Stark. She was glad for her friend, but Shella Whent looked at her daughter with a sad expression. It was with that sorrowful glance that a girl of only ten determined she would run faraway, north, maybe all the way to the Wall.

With her father's permission to ready herself for the impending feast, Anya ran to her room, locking the door behind her. She drug out a leather pack and stuffed three outfits into the bag, moments later she remembered all her precious books. Changing from the fancy dress she had worn throughout the day and into a simple shift, the girl raced to the library and gathered all the books she could manage. She had chosen five, only five books out of hundreds, they were the ones she had spent the most time with, those pages were her dearest friends.

When it was announced that the Starks would be setting off before the feast, Anya saw her opportunity. She crawled into the back of a cart and hid under pelts of fur and leather, after an hour the cavalcade set off and the more distance there was between her and Harrenhal the happier she became.