Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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A RAVEN HAD come in the night and the maester had brought it to Anya's chambers immediately. The grey-black seal bearing the Stark direwolf was unbroken. She thanked Arrel and took the small scroll closer to the hearth, where the light was best.

The letter was written with Sansa's practiced script. We need warriors. We need you and the Hound. A raven's flight is two days quicker than that of a dragon. Anya smiled as she read the next line. Go north with wings on your feet.

"It's time," she announced, turning to face Sandor. The North needed more fighting men. One of the strongest fighters in Westeros stood in front of her.

The Hound's jaw clenched, the scarred mass on his cheek twitched. "If we ride hard, we can arrive in a fortnight." It would be a long and hard ride through snow and ice. Even so, they would never make it in time. The dead were closer to Winterfell than they were.

Anya had the beginnings of a smile on her lips as she passed the slip of parchment to Sandor. "We're not traveling by horse," she told him.

Dark Sister laid across the bed next to her pale birch bow and an iron-banded oaken shield with cracking orpiment paint and nine faded black bats.

Anya Whent set out her leathers and warmest underthings. There was no point in trying to wear proper armor. It would just slow her down, make her more vulnerable. Besides, leather and wool were warmer than metal plate. The boiled leather was scratched and battered from when they'd taken Harrenhal. She hated to know what it would look like after the coming battle.

Her hands were shaking as she began pulling the laces on her back taut. Sandor Clegane stepped behind her and pushed her hands away. He turned her around to face him. "If I turn into one them fuckers-" he eyed the Valyrian Steel blade "-use that sword to end it. No fire."

The lump in her throat made it nigh impossible to say anything. She nodded instead.

Dawn broke through the remainder of the night. Anya stood on the ramparts. Erac Cleaber was at her side. He had his orders to keep Harrenhal in her absence. The Northman had been reluctant to take on the duty. He had sworn his sword to Anya Whent and had it in his mind that he'd die for her. She knew the castle would be in good hands between Erac and Galbart.

She turned to look back at the stockyard. Galbart was below, training a group of young boys with blunted swords. Anya skimmed over the young faces and felt her heart ache. If Winterfell was lost then the young boys with their mothers, sisters, and elders would never stand a chance when the Night King marched south.

For most of her life, she had hated the dilapidated castle. Now she sought to restore its glory. The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was restored in full and the crumbling towers were slowly being repaired. Anya Whent drew in a long breath. This could very well be the last time she ever looked upon the castle.

Two winged shadows appeared on the horizon, black and emerald. Once a man has seen a dragon in flight, let him stay home and tend his garden in content, someone had written once, for this wide world has no greater wonder. She was inclined to believe the author was right.