Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

ѕeveɴ-αɴd-ғorтy

ANYA TIGHTENED THE buckles of her leathers and adjusted the swordbelt that rested above her hips. She slid Dark Sister into its sheath and looked around at those who would be joining her to breach the castle. Satisfied with her own leathern armor, she turned toward Sandor Clegane and took hold of his forearm to properly tighten the strings and straps of his vambrace. A poor excuse to be close to him, really.

"Sandor," she said, quietly, not able to bring herself to meet his gaze. Instead, she looked over to the small group of Unsullied warriors, who hefted up their shields and spears. "I need you to lead them through the front gates." Anya looked up at him then and saw that his eyes had hardened.

"Fuck that," he spat. She had expected resistance, but those words stung in a way she did not think possible. Anya frowned, though she continued to occupy herself with his vambrace until it was laced up and in place.

"Please," she breathed, "I need you here, to lead the attack once the gates are opened." Anya laid one of her hands on his chest, the other she pressed against his cheek, just barely combing her fingers through his coarse beard. "I'll come back," she smiled and pushed herself up on the tips of her toes, placing a sweet and short kiss on his lips, "I always do." He knew she was telling the truth.

Anya pulled off the silver ring from her finger and the leather thong that held back her hair. She slipped the ring onto the piece of leather and pressed it into his hand as a promise before turning away to join the small fellowship of men that had pledged their swords to her cause.

Galbart Glover trailed closer behind Anya Whent as she led them along the shoreline toward the towering monstrosity that was Harrenhal. Sandor would be leading his own troop to the main gates to ready for the true siege. The Northman rushed forward suddenly, seizing Anya's wrist in a manner that made her want to draw her own sword.

Beneath the hood of his dark leather cloak, she could see his piercing blue eyes burning into her. The seven men that were to follow her direct command halted. "Are you out of your mind to leave the Hound outside the gate?"

Anya ripped her arm away from his grasp. "Do not question my motives, Galbart," she snapped. Her once soft eyes had hardened into the hardest steel. He had seen that look in her eyes before when he had inquired of Eddard Stark if he could wed his sister. She had said no, of course, and sent him running back to his lord father's holdfast.

But then his expression softened, as did hers, he had seen that look before in many girls eyes. "Has it truly happened? The stubborn wolf fallen for an old hound?" Came his bemused question, but he already knew the answer. It was obvious the moment he had seen the way they looked at each other.

"Shut it, Galbart," there was a ghost of a smile on her lips, "or I might just mistake you for a Lannister."

The shores of the Gods Eye were eerie in the silence of the night. The water was black and bottomless, lapping at the land like a hungry beast, eager to mangle and devour.

Just as Anya had stated, there was an old smuggler's tunnel that ran beneath the thick walls of Harrenhal, guarded by just an old, rusted portcullis and chain. Galbart slammed the pommel of his sword against the paddock, severing it and the chain.

Disuse had made the passageway seem more like a crypt than anything. Cobwebs had gathered on the ceiling, bricks had fallen from the walls, and stagnant water puddled in the low points of the earthen floor.

They emerged from the tunnel and into the bowels of the Tower of Ghosts, a desolate part of the castle that no one, save a young and adventurous Anya Whent, dared to frequent. The most ruined of the all the castle's towers, some still swore that you could see the maimed specter of Harren the Black wandering on dark nights.