Anya I - The Flame Wraith Who Hides Behind Falcons Gazes

Quiet was the night that settled upon Kings Landing, almost as if heralding something sinister. A city so raucous in daylight turned silent, alas that was only true if one didn’t look to gaudier silken streets, where trollops call for culls even in such a midnight realm as this. Though in one dismal stone window lay a maiden fair, her hair of onyx slipping past rock as if she was stranded far from home.

Her gaze of emerald, meek as it blessed ireful bricks of material danced under the blessing of midnight. Her voice, slow and steady, drawn out notes of melodic chorus flushing the plainly dressed room, slowly drifting out into the dead of night like a sirens call. Anya’s words were sordid, emboldened by the stillness that rested upon her chambers.

“The Eyrie is a better place for this” she muttered as she cut herself off, her hands, small and gaunt slowly grazing the stone as it pulled her skin taut. Until she ripped away like a starfish from the seabed, her hair slowly falling like a curtain upon a play. Her gaze slipped towards the flames of candlelight that flickered under her judgement, a light in the dark, hope for redemption.

She watched it wistfully growl, its claws of illuminating light enrapturing her, each undertone of violent red, it enthralled her. Her hands slipped towards her pocket, slowly pulling from it a thin piece of parchment. Scribbles marred the wrinkled page, not in the common tongue but in something more mysterious, an enigma that none had managed to rob the lady of.

It spoke of fire, of its all consuming power and how it was the great Rh’llor’s gift to this world. Without him, there would be no man, no false gods would dare to encroach upon these lands without him, for he was the origin of all, he was the only true God and all who believed otherwise were heathens. Blasphemers who were but plagues upon this earth, they needed her to save them, to gift them to Rh’llor and let the fire take them.

Though such plans would have to wait. Lady Madelyn had proved a harder target than most, her devotion to mockeries such as the Seven almost as sickening as the foul state of this Realm. It had been Rh’llor that truly saved them, his blessing that fended off the biting ice and yet they forsaked him for false beings who showed no signs of helping nor intending to.

Anya’s hands clasped in prayer, slender fingers meeting each other like statues of faith, feverish as her eyes remained wide, slowly drying under the stimulation of flame yet she remained unblinking as the sting began to set in. Even as her eyes reddened, every inch of her telling her to just shut them, to allow the shadow to encroach upon her like a monster from the tales of old, she didn’t. Her gaze remained unfaltering as it analysed every tendril of orange mixed with the taint of red, waiting for it to tell her something, anything.

Unintelligible murmurings escaped the lady as her head lowered, strands of black, thick with something shiny slowly creeping closer to the fire. She should burn if she drew closer and yet it did not deter her, the Lord Of Light would either protect her or reject her for her incompetence, only they knew as she drew close until a startling knock shocked the lady away from the flame. A quiet gasp met with a cacophony of annoyance that pierced the dry stillness, only the crackle of flame accenting her curses.

“What do you want?” She snarled, her voice, a hoarse mixture of want and dissatisfaction as it rung against riotous walls of stagnancy. The flicker of candlelight slowly diminishing in the near horizons, her steps of cruelty trespassing upon all pretences of ladyship as for one dimly lit moment she seemed but a beast of flame, ready to consume that who dared to disturb her. Anya’s hand slowly slipped around wood as its echoing knock still blitzed in her mind like an eternal reminder of whoever hid behind this door’s transgressions.

“My lady, Lady Madelyn calls for you” A meek voice, small and tired with exhaustion, the marks of endless job wearing away at the maid like water upon rock. As the door creased to an open, her visage would meet the faithful’s eye and her disgust. Weakened wrinkles, withering brows and a scarred temple, all reducing down to the normalcy of such a woman’s life. Anya grunted, that quite easily could have been her but by Rh’llor’s light she’d clawed her way to something more, from a broken children upon the roadside, to something more.

The Lady Stone nodded, almost as rigid as that of which she was granted the name of. “Of course she does, scurry along” she was less a woman and more a monstrosity by the moment, half tempted to grasp the dying candle and plunge it into the servants eye, but alas such lovely moments would be saved for another day. Oh how’d she love to listen to her wail as flame encapsulates her, but the Red God had not decreed such a need yet and Anya’s death would not serve him. Not now.

Lady Anya strode forward, her shoulder sullenly hitting against the girl before her steps became clatters of noise against rough, ragged planks of wood. What does Madelyn want now? She mused it herself, this self righteous Arryn bitch who refused to see the light that blinded her blankly. It was almost pitiful. She clung to a faith that wouldn’t embrace her, that wouldn’t be the salve to heal her sorrows. It was a thankless job upon which the Stone, once a miscreant had taken upon herself to pursue, yet when the Lord Of Light welcomed her into his arms this would all be worth it, no matter how tedious.

She drew near like a falcon swooping upon its prey, except she was not the predator here. At least she couldn’t seem to be, she had to look like the innocent lest she be exposed for the evil she was, cankerous in a way. Chains, not visible wrapped around the words she wished to say, to spout her faith and preach a future of Rh’llor. Not yet, she reminded herself as she adorned a perfectly sweet voice, still seething with fervour just for something else, a different cause. “Lady Madelyn, I’m here”