Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

ғoυr-αɴd-ғorтy

DRAGONSTONE WAS AN imposing fortress built for militaristic means and intimidation. The dark stone was harsh against the grey-white sea cliffs and green grass, shaped by fire and sorcery. Even from the ship, Anya could see the dragon motifs placed around the castle. From a distance they seemed to be live creatures, moving and writhing but she knew they were nothing more than stone. The island grew larger as the ship drew closer to the bay and for the first time in many years, Anya felt the breath leave her lungs in awe. Kings Landing was a marvel of engineering, no doubt, but Dragonstone? Dragonstone was beautiful, the way Harrenhal should have been.

From the side of the ship, the captain and crew ushered them all into small dinghies to row ashore. But while the castle and dark beach were breathtaking the real sight to marvel at was that of two large dragons landing on the top of the cliff. One with rippling black scales, the other with green and bronze. Drogon and Rhaegal are what Daenerys named them. One after her late husband, the other after her brother. 

Several people came to gather on the dark sand beach as the setting sun painted the sky with warm hues, unfitting for the impending winter. Anya suspected them to be Daenerys's advisors and captains. Most wore relieved expressions mixed with equal amounts of sadness and grief. Sandor Clegane took Anya's hand, breaking her from trance and thought, pulling her from the small boat.

He looked more battle-worn since the last time they spoke and to him, she looked more withered than he last remembered. Tyrion Lannister looked up at Anya Whent with wide mismatched eyes, his mouth slightly agape —not believing the sight before him. She is a walking corpse, he thought, but that wasn't the right way to describe the sister of Eddard Stark. "Lady Anya," he sighed her name and reached out to take her hand, now hardened with callouses and small scabs that had yet to heal.

"Tyrion," she greeted, fondness lingering in her voice. Regardless of the miserable times in Kings Landing, the Imp had always managed to make it a little more bearable with his wit and love of reading. Two things Anya Whent valued in a friend. "I am most pleased to learn you have survived." Rumors over the land told her the Imp was dead, that he killed his nephew and father and disappeared in a puff of smoke, that somehow he had found his way across the Narrow Sea.

Tyrion Lannister let himself smile despite the solemn circumstances surrounding their sudden reunion. "As am I."

Daenerys picked up her skirts and took a seat next to Anya Whent in Aegon's Garden. Tall dark trees surrounded them, pines and cedars that blocked out much of the sun. "Your grace," Anya greeted, but her focus never left the pale yellow rose she held between her fingers. Scattered around her feet were petals of red, yellow, and pink with barren thorny stems.

"Your father was a cruel man," the Dragon Queen said suddenly, catching her off guard. 

Anya pricked her thumb on one of the small thorns and watched as a bead of dark blood formed and slid down into her palm. "He was," she affirmed. Walter Whent was not a kind man but in comparison to Aerys Targaryen he would have seemed a proper knight, "as was your father." Dany bristled at the mention —she was not her father, nor was she her brothers.