Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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A MAGPIE SITS on Anya's windowsill —the black and white bird looks into her chambers silently. Its black beady eyes never leave the bed where she lay, curled into herself. She dreads this day more than the last, having not slept soundly in more than a week and refusing any concoction Pycelle dared offer. She stares back at the bird and repeats the old poem aloud.

"One for sorrow, two for joy,
Three for a girl, four for a boy,
Five for silver, six for gold,
Seven for a secret, never to be told.
Eight for heaven, nine for hell,
Ten when you sing to the Stranger himself."

It's ill luck to disregard a single magpie —it's one of the oldest wives' tales she can remember hearing. But Anya Stark finds it hard to believe in luck or the gods, for that matter. They've all abandoned her. I carry Harrenhal's curse. She reaches for the empty wine glass on her bedside table and throws it at the magpie. The glass misses and hits the stone wall next to the window, shattering, but the magpie takes flight.

Anya rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling, dreading this day more than the last. But her lady's maid comes soon after, and a seamstress presents her with a crimson dress of silk and velvet with a golden belt to wear for the tourney in celebration of Joffrey's nameday. She knows what game they are playing well enough —seeking to strip away everything which made her a Stark in appearance. Both she and Sansa are Cersei and Joffrey's playthings to torment. Rana helps Anya into the new dress and then starts combing through her honey hair —braiding and pinning her hair up in the style of the other southron ladies.

Princess Myrcella smiles when she sees Anya will join them for her brother's nameday tournament. Much to her mother's dismay, she's become oddly fond of Anya Stark since her arrival in King's Landing. The princess likes reading, and Anya is among the few people in the city to help her find books and understand stories. She smiles at Myrcella and takes the empty seat behind her and Tommen to watch. 

So many men from the Hand's Tourney have marched off to war, and it leaves only a few behind to attempt a grand spectacle to please the king. The mêlée matches are lazily fought and drawn out by hedgeknights and squires of nigh the same skill, and it bores Joffrey. He twists in his chair to look back at Sandor —standing resolute and holding his hound's head helm. "I'm tired of these petty knights not drawing blood," Joffrey says. "Go, Dog," he commands, and Sandor Clegane goes, obedient.

Sandor fights and wins thrice over. Each victory ends in blood, and three vassal and aspiring knights have lost their lives for a mad king's amusement. Though it is the fall that kills the last competitor, not the Hound's blow. But those gathered clap and cheer the bloody spectacle all the same. Joffrey looks on, bemused as they drag away the fallen knight, dumping buckets to wash away the blood pooling beneath him as his corpse is dragged away. "Well struck, dog!" He calls, then turns to Sansa. "Did you like that?"

Sansa glances at her aunt, but Anya can only nod, urging her to give Joffrey an answer. We must learn to play the game, but she's still young, and the full horrors of the world have not shown themselves. The girl turns her gaze to her hands —clasped together in her lap— then to the king. "It was well struck, your grace," she replies quietly.

"I already said it was well struck," he sneers.

Sansa does not meet his gaze, only looks ahead where Sandor Clegane stands, victorious. "Yes, your grace," she says with calm indifference.

The herald extends his arm to announce the next competitor. "Lothor Brune," he calls. "Free rider in the service of Lord Baelish." Lothor Brune steps forward in his mismatched armor —the same he wore when he rode against Jory in the Hand's Tourney. Why did they have to take you too, Jory? "Ser Dontos of the Red of House Hollard." There is no movement among the lists, only whispers of the missing knight. "Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard!" The herald repeats, this time louder.