Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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IT'S DUSK WHEN Anya pulls up the hood of her cloak and sets out toward the gates of the Red Keep. She's almost through when the iron-shod hooves clack on the cobble behind her —a dozen excuses rush through her mind as she turns. But it's only Stranger and his rider, and her shoulders sag in relief at the sight of the pair. Sandor offers his hand. "Are you just going to stand there, woman?" He asks. Anya takes his hand, and he leans to the side in his saddle, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her up and in front of him. The guards let them pass with no inquiries. She won't be able to get far if she tries anything with the Hound.

"Where are we going?" He doesn't answer, and she doesn't ask again until they near Flea Bottom. Anya cranes her neck back and catches a fleeting glance of the unmarred half of his face —perhaps in another life, he might be handsome, she thinks. "Where are you taking me, Sandor?" She queries again, and this time he answers.

"Rhaenys's Hill," he rasps, the heat of his breath tickling the back of her neck. The Dragonpit. The hill looms over the slums, large and dark, with its cavernous dome roof and scorched stone.

Stranger canters up the wide stairs with ease and crests the top of the hill. The Red Keep is large, as is Harrenhal, but compared to the Dragonpit, they both feel small. He dismounts and steadies Anya when she slides off the saddle.

Anya runs her fingertips over the melted stone banisters as she ascends the last of the crumbling stairs, following the Hound. The Dragonpit's dome roof is broken —collapsed in some places— its walls blackened by fire. It's in ruins, Anya thinks, like Harrenhal. The great bronze doors are coated in a layer of green tarnish and sealed shut for over a century. Sandor Clegane strikes the rusting chains sealing the doors with the iron pommel of his bastard sword, then again, and the links give way. He pushes the heavy door in, and dust fills the air —revealing the silvery streams of moonlight shining down.

Even in its ruin, Anya cannot deny the grandeur and awe of the structure —seeing it up close makes it easy to imagine the vaulted ceilings and ornate pillars holding up the entrance to the tunnels beneath where dragons once resided. But the only dragons now are dust and bones, or lines on a page. She walks through the ruins, a mix of sadness and joy overcoming her.

Some of the skulls are so large she can stand upright in the empty cavity, but others are small —scarcely larger than Tommen's cat. She would have liked to see the dragon skulls adorning the throne room of the Red Keep, but Robert had them removed —one of his first commands as king.

If only I could see a dragon. A real live dragon, then perhaps I could die happy. But there are no dragons in the world anymore —the last one died a century before her birth. Anya sits amongst the rubble —her knees drawn to her chest as she looks up at the starry night through a gaping hole in the roof. There's something almost childlike about how she looks in the moonlight amongst the ruins. She knows he meant well bringing her here, but there's nothing but death and destruction within the ruins. "Why did you bring me here?"

Sandor shrugs as if he doesn't have an answer or is hesitant to speak the true reason. After a moment, he speaks. "You like dragons," he says, and her heart leaps.

Recovering her composure, she wanders the desolation and recalls the history of King's Landing —from its founding until the years of Robert's reign. Princess Rhaenys broke through the floor of the Dragonpit during Aegon's coronation, marking some of the first deaths in the Targaryen civil war which would follow —and a growing hatred toward dragons among the people. Anya looks at the thick bones lying next to an iron collar, the chain still wrapped around a pillar. The bones could belong to Shrykos, Tyraxes, or even Morghul —all of them were slain when the smallfolk stormed the Dragonpit during the Dance. Walls are stained black with soot, a remnant of the Great Spring Sickness —thousands died, but there is no mass grave, only ashes scattered on the wind. The books say the entire city was alight with the green glow of wildfire for weeks.