Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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SHE SLEPT IN the shadow of Harrenhal. Harrentown had been put to the torch. Wood had burned to ash but the blackened stone remained. The dilapidated structure had once been an inn. She had known the innkeepers as a child. He had been named Orik, his wife Katrina. They had given her a meal and a warm bed the night she ran off pretending to be a dragon terrorizing people in the night. Her father's men posted at the gates would not let her enter the castle that night. They didn't believe she was Lord Whent's daughter —not when she was covered in mud and wearing a ragged nightdress. That was over two decades past. The stone was cold, and Almond's saddle blanket was woven of thin linen —unfit for warmth. The winter is cold, she told herself, but I am colder.

When morning light broke through the crumbling walls and cast its pale warmth upon Anya's face, she rose —feeling decades older than her age. Dark clouds loomed overhead. Instead of taking the Kingsroad, she veered off to the east and followed the desolate path running near the Antlers and through Duskendale.

Passersby sometimes gave her a wary glance, making her question whether they recognized her, but such worries seemed obscure when she was wearing such travel-worn clothes to match her dirtied face and frayed hair. Regardless, Anya pulled the hood of her cloak up and strapped her sword to the horse's saddle. She rode with her hand resting over the hilt, never feeling at ease.

In two days, she would ride through the Dragon Gate into the city of King's Landing, but to do so without first resting was a death sentence for her and Almond. On the outskirts of Duskendale was a tavern. The room for the night was cheap —the mead cheaper. Anya recalled the layout of the Red Keep. The tunnels that led from the city into the castle, where the guards were primarily stationed, and the secret passages within the Keep, one of which led into the chambers that Sansa occupied. She could only pray her niece was still there.

Before the sunset she found a large oak tree and took a place beneath it, laying out her sword, dagger, and whetstone. If the gods were merciful then mayhap no one would need to die, but by now she had learned the gods, above all, loved bloodshed. In cold, methodical strokes she ran the small piece of stone down the edge of the blades and told herself that soon it would be over. She would take Sansa with her to the Quiet Isle with enough silver and gold to buy three spots on the next ship across the Narrow Sea.

The next day came quickly, and before dawn had even come Anya was on the road again. Rain pounded down on her, the road turning into a sloppy mess, but she would not stop. Not when she was this close.

It was by luck alone that she recognized him outside of the castle of House Stokeworth. For once the gods had answered her prayers in the cruelest way imaginable. The prince charming façade that he wore so arrogantly before the war had all but vanished —along with his right hand. He traveled with no formal party, only another lone rider. Anya pressed her heels into Almond's sides and raced to meet them on the road.

"Kingslayer!" Jaime Lannister turned. An unexpected pallor washed over him as the rider flung back the dark hood to reveal honey hair and the cold, grey eyes of a Stark. It was the sellsword Bronn who accompanied him, his hand hovered over a throwing knife strapped to his belt, itching to throw it should she try anything funny. Jaime held up his golden hand and the sellsword sat back in his saddle, a wary expression mixed with disbelief on his face. He dismounted his white stallion, and Anya did the same.

She stood before him with eyes that could pierce a man more easily than Valyrian Steel. "Rumor has it that you're a dead woman, Anya Stark." For perhaps for only the second or third time in his life, Jaime Lannister felt profound respect grow for the woman standing before him. She was a survivor.

Anya gritted her teeth together to forget what he had done to her family. How he attacked Ned in the streets and killed Jory. "Perhaps I am dead." There was no emotion in her voice, only cold determination. "I certainly feel it. Now tell me, where is Sansa?" Grief had given her a haunted, vulnerable look; if anything, it had only made her more beautiful since their last meeting in the gardens of the Red Keep.