Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

ғιve-αɴd-ғorтy

ANYA STOOD AT the bow of the ship and closed her eyes, feeling the salt spray kiss her cheeks with a stinging softness. Her thick black cloak did not seem to be enough to keep the chill of the air from creeping into her bones. They would be arriving in the capital soon. She dreaded the thought of being back within the city where so much had happened to her family.

The planks of the deck creaked and gave away Sandor Clegane's approach. "Never wanted to see that fucking city again, and yet here we are," he muttered. Anya could only nod. If she closed her eyes she could remember the Blackwater burning and the blood that covered her sword and hands. She reached up and pressed into the scar on her shoulder, it still pained her from time to time. "I don't like this."

She looked up at him and felt the sigh tugging at her lips. Ten times over she had told Jon and Daenerys about the Dragonpit and the wildfire that was concealed in the hollow floor. She beseeched them to ask of another place to meet, the Red Keep perhaps or on the docks, anywhere else than a place that could be destroyed in an instant. Anya had seen what wildfire could do, had seen it melt flesh from bone. It was no small wonder why the seven hells had been painted as fiery voids.

"Neither do I. The cache of wildfire," she breathed, thinking of the vats filled with the volatile green liquid. Cersei had already blown the Great Sept of Baelor to kingdom come with the stores once hidden by the Mad King and Anya knew that she would do it again. "She's the type of bitch that'll burn just to know her enemies are dead too."

On the horizon was land and the tall spires of the Red Keep. Anya frowned and turned to follow Sandor below the deck. She did not wish to see the wretched city until there was little choice. Out of the sight of the others and in the darkness of the ship's belly, he pulled his little rose close, wrapped an arm around her waist and feared the thought of having to let her go.

One thing that had not changed was the smell. Smoke, sweat, and shit. They disembarked the ship, with Jon and Tyrion at the head of the party. The streets merged in familiarity from there. It had been on these streets were the common folk rioted, turning on the King and themselves. It had been in a nearby alley where a group had tried to rape her and where Sandor had found her with a ripped dress and blood covering her arms. There were no pleasant memories to be found within the city walls.

The captured wight rattled around in the wooden crate and both Anya and Sandor looked over their shoulder at the box. The quest had almost killed them all, but they had their proof of the dead. Jon motioned waved for Anya to join him, but her attention was diverted into to Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Bitterness consumed her.

"You shot me," Anya gritted out from behind clenched teeth as the sellsword fell back at her side. Bronn glanced down at her, an arrogant smirk curling his lips. He put his thumbs through his belt loops and walked with a proud, cocky stride. "Aye, I did, got a nice golden purse for it too when I told the Queen you were dead." Anya's glare was venomous, the sellsword chuckled, he was accustomed to receiving worse looks from women, though perhaps they weren't so eager to drive a sword through his heart, "you're a survivor though."