Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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ARMORIES USUALLY SMELLED of iron, coal, and sweat. The armory at Winterfell only smelled of two of those things. When dragonglass was smelted and cast it didn't have the same earthy scent as iron. Sets of daggers and spearheads were being dumped into piles by the dozens. They'd be distributed to every man able to hold his own.

"Gendry!" The blacksmith set down his hammer and turned. Anya stood a few feet back from his workbench, looming behind her with a grim expression was Sandor Clegane.

"M'lady," he greeted with a quick bend in his knees. Gendry Baratheon quickly turned and picked up a bundle of arrows he'd tucked away for safe-keeping. The wooden shafts were made of pale wood, the fletching made of turkey feathers. "Took the liberty of making a few dragonglass arrows for you." He'd been told she was one of the best archers in Westeros.

She plucked one from the bundle and looked over the craftsmanship. It was well made despite the rush to prepare for battle. Anya assured him they would be put to good use in the coming fight. "And for the Hound-" Gendry hefted up a large axe hewn from the black glass "-heard you can do some serious damage with an axe."

Sandor took the double-sided axe and surveyed the sharp edge and thick, wooden handle. It was heavy in hand and sharp. Those were the two things he looked for in a good weapon.

"Not easy making something that big out of dragonglass," Gendry noted, a hint of pride in the words.

"You're saying your good, is that it?" Anya gave the Hound a harsh look. Now was not the time to be picking fights among friends and allies. After giving her thanks to Gendry, she left for the courtyard, not wishing to delay him from making weapons any longer.

Lunch rations were being served in the courtyard. Steaming bowls of stew and small brown rolls. Anya had given her part to Sandor, finding that the unease in her stomach made it difficult to eat. She'd wander up to the castle walls, to look over the rolling hills and freshly fallen snow. 

Arya stood at her aunt's side on the parapet of Winterfell. Despite the rush to prepare for battle, everything seemed normal. Mikken could have been in the forges instead of Gendry. Jory could have been watching over the boys training with short spears instead of Yohn Royce. For a moment, Anya let herself remember Winterfell as it had once been.

"Is that Valyrian Steel?" Arya asked, eyeing the gold and red hilt of the sword on Anya's hip. It reminded her of Oathkeeper, but older. The question drew Anya away from distant memories.

Anya nodded and withdrew the sword from its sheath. "Dark Sister," she noted. She had tried offering the Targaryen blade to Daenerys after arriving on Dragonstone. The white-haired queen had laughed softly and shaken her head. She had no need for a sword with dragons. Dany had told her fate had willed her to find the lost sword. It was hers to keep, and she prayed it would serve her well.

Arya pulled a dagger free from her belt. The hilt was jeweled, the blade rippled like moving water. Anya had seen it before in the hands of Petyr Baelish. "A very nice dagger," she remarked handing it back to her niece, "though I imagine Littlefinger is missing it."