Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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THE RENDEZVOUS POINT for the siege of Harrenhal was the Crossroads Inn. That was the faction of Unsullied placed under her command would be waiting. That was the location she had used in her letter sent to the North. She and Sandor arrived in the dead of night. Smoke flittered up into the cold air from the stone chimneys, a handful of windows had sallow candles burning, their small flames flickering in welcome.

He carried her from the stables to the inn and followed the old innkeeper up the stairs to an empty room with a fire already burning in the hearth. "You've been awfully quiet," Sandor mused as he pulled off his boots and shed the heaviest layers of his clothing. Anya did the same, though she only shrugged at the question. There was a lot weighing on her mind and heart, and somethings she could not manage to put into words.

The Hound sat on the edge of the bed and worked the soreness out of his scarred leg. Anya Whent stepped between his legs and cradled his burned face in her hands. "I'm glad you waited," she whispered. In truth, she hadn't known what to expect when she agreed to remain behind. She had already thought of a hundred ways to escape the capital, though none seemed feasible. Sandor gripped onto her thighs and looked up at her. He still believed she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"King in the North wasn't about to leave you behind," he rasped. She knew Jon had not wished to leave her behind in King's Landing, and she liked to think that Sandor despised the idea as well. He pulled her down onto his lap with a harsh tug. "Neither was I," he added. I'm not letting you out of my sight, again.

He kissed her and she kissed him back. "Seven hells," he rasped, breaths ragged. Anya brought her lips to the divot in his tunic that exposed the top of his chest. The tendrils of his hair tickling her nose as she planted delicate kisses on his skin. She could feel his heartbeat quickening. "What have done to me, little rose?"

He moved slowly, but deliberately. It almost made Anya laugh. After all she had endured, after all they had endured, he was still adamant in using excess caution in these intimate moments. "I'm not made of glass," she whispered, words dancing over his lips and scarred cheek. That made him chuckle, a low and deep sound that reverberated in his chest.

Sandor pushed her back onto the small featherbed. He braced his weight on his forearms, but Anya could see that his left shoulder shook, having never fully healed. "Aye," he replied, leaning down so close that she could just feel the tickle of his beard against her cheek and neck, "but you're not Valyrian Steel either."

"Anya?" She jumped and her horse startled as well. The man had soft and dark coppery curls with piercing blue eyes to match the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. He was wrapped in a burgundy doublet with a bastard sword on his hip. Anya looked at him closely in the low light of morning hours and smiled when she saw the sigil on his breast. A silver fist on a scarlet field. House Glover.

"Galbart?" There was disbelief in her voice. It seemed odd to think the awkward lordling that had sought her hand in marriage had turned into such a handsome knight. There was a soft smile on his roughened face. "Oh my dear, gentle wolf," he breathed, taking her into his arms.