Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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SHE PARRIES THE stroke of his blade and spins away, laughing as the second blow comes to land. The bastard sword is heavy in hand —a reminder she's not wielded it since Ned's execution, nor had she taken up her bow. Anya thrusts the point of her blade forward, eyeing an opening at the sellsword's side, but Bronn knocks the sword away and offers a wolfish grin before putting her back on the defense. He's a quick opponent, but she's quicker, given her size.

Sweat stings her eyes and makes the linen of her tunic cling to her arms and middle, but she doesn't relent —not even when the tip of his sword nicks her forearm. Blood blossoms on her sleeve, but Bronn earns a bloody nose when they reach a temporary stalemate. It's a raucous affair with no elegance —the way a real fight is, not how she and Benjen used to spar, or even how she taught Robb and Jon. Their match ends with a silent agreement, and Bronn sheaths his sword, offering a nod of approval as he regains his breath. "Fight good for a woman," he remarks, and it's as though the accolade pains him to say.

Anya places her blade back into its scabbard and laughs as she goes to fetch a skin of water. "That wasn't an endearing compliment," she retorts, uncorking her waterskin. "Just 'you fight well' would have sufficed."

Bronn turns up a wineskin, half-laughing —the sellsword isn't the best company, but he's far better than the lot of King's Landing. "Ever went at it with him?" He asks, knowing there's some unspoken thing between her and the Hound. She follows his gaze to where Sandor Clegane stands, stoic, as the master-at-arms trains Joffrey in his swordsmanship.

"No," Anya tells him, remembering their brief confrontation on the Kingsroad during the journey south. Even after seeing him fight his brother and in Joffrey's nameday tourney, a part of her is convinced she could take him —even giants must tire and fall, eventually. She unties her vambrace and rolls the sleeve of her tunic up, dousing the small cut on her forearm with water to wash away dirt, sweat, and a bit of dried blood.

"Fancy a round of archery?" She asks the sellsword, retrieving her birch bow. He waves off the offer but doesn't leave the yard. Too many people have spoken praise about her skill with a bow. Anya strings her bow and calls for a bundle of arrows. She's not had the heart to use the finely crafted weapon since Ned's death. A page boy hurries forward with a basket of arrows —the fletching a mix of turkey feathers dyed red and blue.

Nocking an arrow, Anya takes a breath to aim at the coiled rope target on the opposite end of the training yard. Another breath, and she releases. The arrow hangs in the air for a brief moment before thudding into the center of the target. She fires another arrow, quicker than the first, and splits the one already there with ease —a feat still talked about from the Hand's Tourney. Bronn won't admit it, but she's a better archer than him.

The target's center is packed with arrows when she calls for another bundle. The first target Bronn is an apple thrown into the air, then an orange held in his outstretched hand. There's a fat pigeon roosting on a stone bench and a ring from one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting. And when Podrick Payne passes by, Bronn waves him over. He trembles against the stone wall with an apple balanced on his head. His eyes squeezed shut when Anya draws back the string of her bow. There's a whistle and a thunk, and when he opens his eyes, the half-eaten red apple is pinned to the mortar. She and Bronn laugh at how the boy's shoulders slump in relief. He recovers a stack of scrolls, then scurries to finish his delivery to Tyrion. 

There's only one arrow left and no more apples or poor pigeons. Anya glances around the training yard but finds her gaze drawn to Sandor —standing like a statue at his post on the level above. She doesn't think about what she's about to do, only nocks the arrow and draws back the string before losing it. The arrow whistles through the air until it embeds in the wall of the roundhouse —finding the mortar between two red bricks— not even an inch from Sandor's left ear. She leans against the bow in triumph. The Hound glares at her from across the way, but when she smiles, he's already forgotten the arrow next to his head. And now Bronn's certain what servants and smallfolk like to whisper about a wolf and an old hound is true.