Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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NED IS NOT pleased with the thought of a tournament hosted in his honor as the new Hand of the King but Robert and the small council insist. Such events are good for the realm and bring people together from across the Seven Kingdoms. They name it the Hand's Tourney, as though Ned has gone out of his way to ensure this a grand event with almost one-hundred thousand gold dragons for the victors. Robert thinks he should be honored by it but he dreads the thought —it's the last thing in the world he wants. Sansa is excited to see it play out —especially once learning Ser Loras Tyrell would be among the competitors— and at the very least, Ned takes solace in his daughter's happiness.

Great and small houses alike begin arriving in the days before the first of the events is to take place. Anya Stark watches them set up their colored pavilions in the fields outside the capital. The knights and their squires strut about like peacocks, their shining armor and fat purses their feathers. She dreads having to attend as it means remembering the etiquette lessons, wearing fancy dresses, and enduring the attitudes of Southrons.

She looks across the table where Sandor Clegane sits with a full tankard of wine in front of him. The Laughing Thief is busier than usual —increased foot traffic from those who have arrived for the Hand's Tourney— but they'd managed a table in the corner on the back wall to watch everyone trickle in and then stumble out. Anya looks into her cup of mead, her second of the night already. After enduring a long debate with Littlefinger and Lord Renly, she asks Gerrad Hills for the strongest drink he can offer.

"Are you partaking in the tourney?" She asks, setting her cup back on the table. The Hound gives a funny look, like she's lost her mind, and responds with a gruff noise that sounds as though he is going to spit at the very idea. "Not even a single joust or mêlée?" It's hard to believe the Hound would turn down an opportunity to knock a few knights off their high horses.

Three months slip by, both fast and slow. In that time, Anya learns the Hound is a man of few words, but when he does speak, people seem to listen. But it's his silence that speaks the loudest —at least to Anya. She feels she's learned a good deal about him, even if he doesn't know it. She takes another long drink from her cup —the mead is sweet on her tongue, but burns the throat and tickles her belly before pooling into giddy warmth.

She's nigh indistinguishable from the commonfolk after three cups of the strong mead as she laughs and drinks and curses with the best —the only thing giving away her status is the grey wolf embroidered on her tunic. The tavern's abuzz with laughter as everyone shares their most perverse and crude jokes. Anya clambers up onto the bench, swaying with her drink in hand and a crooked grin twisting her pink lips. "What does the sign on a defunct brothel say?" There's a silent pause with everyone awaiting the answer. "Beat it! We're closed!" It sends The Laughing Thief into an uproar of guffawing and cackling with ale and wine sloshing out of cups.

Sandor Clegane tries his damnedest not to laugh, but the wine is especially strong and he finds himself howling along with all the others at the stupid joke. She looks at him and smiles. It's enough to sober him in an instant. The gods are cruel he thinks. They've fashioned the perfect woman only to place her out of his paws' reach. He downs the rest of his drink and then two more in hopes he can erase Anya Stark from his thoughts for the night.

Only a handful of people remain in the tavern by the time he's had his fill of drink but when he looks across the table, Sandor frowns. "Come on, little rose" —he offers his hand— "let's get you back to your tower." Anya stands with a groan, then stumbles but rights herself even if her head is swimming in mead. She makes it out the door and halfway up the street, then falls behind, dragging her feet. The Hound backtracks and picks her up even when she mutters weak protests. Eventually, she lets him carry her over his shoulder in silence all the way to the Keep.