Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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THE DAYS ARE sluggish to pass and the nights even longer. It's been no less than a month since arriving in the capital, but it already feels like a year. Most nights, she stays up, reading by candlelight, though on occasion, she writes to Benjen —and Jon— letters to remain sealed and tucked away until the gods let them meet again. The letters are something she's done ever since Benjen first joined the Watch. He doesn't get to write often, but it's always eased the ache in his heart on the longest and coldest nights to be able to read Anya's account of recent events and her rambling thoughts. The men of the Night's Watch had no family, but Benjen Stark has always had a sister —he would not forsake her. She misses him now more than ever.

She's written a letter already, detailing the horrid cesspit that is King's Landing —how the air is so thick with the smell of smoke and shit it's nigh impossible to breathe unless you're high above the city in the Keep— and how she'd struck the killing blow before Robert could on a hunt, it's the only time she's ever enjoyed eating boar. But there are still hours before dawn, and she cannot calm her restless mind.

The library is empty at this hour, and the book detailing the history of the Night's Watch is where she last left it —the page marked on Maester Byrron's retelling of Alysanne Targaryen's visit to the Wall upon Silverwing. But the candle soon burns low, and it is not until the early hours of the morn that Anya wakes to the sound of rain. 

The Red Keep's stone weeps blood in the storm —given the House Targaryen's history, she wonders if the brick and mortar to build the city had been mixed with the blood of enemies and innocents alike. Anya stops in the archway at the end of the hall, looking across the courtyard to the Hand's Tower. "Lady Stark." The rasping voice is unmistakable even if it's been weeks since she last heard him speak. She turns, hesitant. "You dropped this." Sandor Clegane holds her hair comb —silver teeth and silver bats with yellow sapphires for eyes— in his open palm. The last thing she has left of House Whent. The size of his hand dwarfs it.

She reaches out, taking the comb —fingertips brushing over his palm. "Thank you kindly," Anya replies, wishing her tone hadn't been so stiff. The Hound looks at her a moment longer, his expression an unreadable mask of thought and emotion, then he turns away —retreating down the hall. But she's tired of ignoring him —it wasn't his fault what happened that night near the Trident. It isn't right of her to treat him like she had either. "Sandor," she calls, gripping his arm before he can take another step. He looks back, then faces her when she speaks. "The past is written, the ink dry. Let us move on." He makes a gruff noise from the back of his throat and nods before setting back off. Anya remains in the hall listening to the rain and watching the flickering torches lick at the stone walls as lightning flashes across the sky.

FOR DAYS, THE Red Keep has begun to feel more and more like a prison, and Anya is ready for a taste of freedom again. She dons her plainest dress and ties off her cloak and a purse of coin at her hip —she'll find some form of entertainment for the night. Most of the northern guards have retired to the barracks, and only a handful remain at their posts. It's easy to slip by them unnoticed. Before taking to the city, Anya goes to the garden to see if any of the famed moonflowers are in bloom. Harrenhal's Tower of Ghosts had vines of moonflowers that bloomed white against the charred stone. But there is nary a bud left on the creeping vine. The blooms are already gone for the season.