Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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TRAVELING ON THE Kingsroad is a royal pain in Anya Stark's arse. Robert commands the cavalcade to stop for food and drink at each and every inn and castle they come across —and if there's a whore he can stick his prick in for the night, it makes everything all the better. With each feast thrown to honor the king by vassal lords, Anya swears Robert grows fatter. It feels as though winter will have come and gone before they ever reach the capital. She looks ahead at the long line of horses and footmen marching along the road, regretting having ever left Winterfell and dreading the moment she arrives in King's Landing.

Anya rides next to Ned and Jory most of the time, though, on occasion, she rides ahead to Sandor's side, trailing behind Prince Joffrey —who finds it amusing a wolf has taken an interest in a hound. They don't speak much, just a few words here and there and a couple of odd glances. Sandor Clegane still thinks her strange. She isn't afeared of him, can even look him in the eye when most ordained knights couldn't. He finds he can respect her for that, even if she is a proper little highborn lady.

The traveling party stops early in the afternoon at a small inn and tavern off the Kingsroad to let the horses rest and allow everyone a break from riding. It's an opportunity Anya welcomes, even if it means another day of travel —the long days of sitting astride Shadow have made her arse go numb more times than she cares to count. Jory offers to tend to Shadow, and Anya offers an appreciative smile as she unties her cloak and strips off her riding gloves —nigh falling into her tent for a moment's rest. But a moment soon turns to hours.

Most are asleep when Anya crawls from her tent with a grumbling stomach and a hankering for something stronger than watered ale. Robert Baratheon had already drunk the stores of wine dry —giving Anya yet another reason for her soured mood. She's certain wine would have helped Cersei and the other ladies' complaints about the severity of traveling without their fineries be more tolerable.

It's the hour of the ghosts, with the crescent moon shining through a veil of pale clouds. Small fires pock the camp and glow in the windows of the tavern and inn —warm and welcoming. Anya makes her way to the tavern but stops to watch a dark figure polish a dog's head helm with an oiled rag. Sandor Clegane is resting against one of the old trees, tending his helm and blades. There's a simplicity in the action which reminds her of one of Ser Rodrik's lessons in the courtyard of Winterfell after Benjen gave her a real sword of her own. Neat clothes and an eye-pleasing appearance will not save anyone's life, but a sword will, so long as it's well-cared for and the person at the dull end knows what they're doing. The memory fades as quickly as it'd come, and Anya goes to Sandor without hesitation. "Take a drink with me?" She asks.

The Hound looks for something in her eyes or smile which would tell him this is only a jest —a fool's dare from one of the other ladies— but there's no sign of deception in her grey eyes. He grunts, and the mass of scarred flesh above his eye twitches, as though he is trying to raise the dropping brow in question or challenge. "Last I heard, it was unladylike to drink," he rasps.

Anya scoffs and crosses her arms, but Sandor Clegane pushes himself from the ground and stands, adjusting the gorget of his armor and his swordbelt. "Let's pretend I'm not a lady then," she smiles.

Sandor looks down at her and motions for her to take the lead. The innkeeper brings out two bowls of beef broth and a loaf of brown bread —burnt on the bottom. Anya tosses him a silver stag and asks for wine for herself and her friend. He's quick to have a serving wench bring them a pair of flagons filled with red wine from the Vale and two cups.

It takes three tankards of sweet red for the Hound's tongue to loosen —he's blunt and bawdy, which makes Anya think he could make a very good drinking companion, especially once they finally reach the capital. Sandor sets down his mug and leans forward on the table, looking up from under his drooping brow. "Can you play the harp and sing pretty little songs?" The question is meant to be mocking, but Anya cannot be bothered to find the offense in it.