Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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"Remember when you sent Galbart Glover running back to Deepwood Motte?" Anya laughs, her smile wide and bright as the southern sun. She insulted his manhood after he'd come to ask Ned for permission to court his sister. Galbart Glover is but one of the men she's sent running back to their lord fathers and keeps with their tails tucked between their legs, rather it is with harsh —but often true— quips or by knocking them on their arses with a blade.

Benjen lifts his hand to halt Anya before she can go any further. The glade ahead is a good place to catch an unsuspecting stag or boar. They slide off their mounts, tacking the reins to young oak trees. "Look at the size of that one," he murmurs, eyeing a grazing red stag at the edge of the treeline. Anya nocks an arrow and keeps close to her brother, mindful of each step. She crouches, bow half-drawn, and Benjen nods. They both know what to do —aim for the heart, release in three heartbeats.

The bows creak in the cold. Anya anchors the butt of the arrow with her lips, feeling the tickle of the turkey feather fletching. One. She exhales. Two. Her fingers begin to slacken on the bowstring. Three. Anya loses her arrow, and Benjen does too. The deer lifts its head at the soft whistle of the arrows cutting through the air, but it's too late —the creature lies unmoving on the forest floor with two arrows piercing its heart. She and Benjen exchange smiles at their success, and then she brings a hunter's horn up to her lips —neither of their horses would be able to bear the weight all the way back to Winterfell.

One of the smallfolk from Winter Town hears the horn and rides out, bringing a mule-drawn cart. She and Benjen heave the stag onto the cart and instruct the man to deliver it to Winterfell. Anya promises they'll pay the man for his services, a coin purse, or a ration from the deer. They return to their horses, mounting up to begin a slow ride back to the castle —time to talk about the happenings at the Wall and the gossip from across the Seven Kingdoms.

When they reach the gates of Winterfell, Benjen is quick to hand off his horse and join the feast, but Anya goes to the godswood, feeling a heavy weight resting upon her chest. She slides from Shadow's saddle and kneels at the heart tree —praying the old gods be good and protect her family from Robert Baratheon's plans, and look over Benjen and Jon at the Wall. Wind rustles the scarlet leaves, and she takes it as a sign.

Rising from prayer and reflection, Anya leads Shadow to the stables and passes the silver beast to a young boy, though another horse catches her eye —a sleek black warhorse, the largest she's seen. He stamps his hoof into the straw-covered ground as she passes by. "Aren't you magnificent?" Anya reaches to pat the beast's neck, but he bares his teeth and bites at the wool cloak around her shoulders. Affronted, Anya steps back and glares at the horse.

"Bother him, and he'll knock you on your arse." The voice, rough and unfamiliar, startles her. She turns to face the shadow looming over her, finding Joffrey's dog looking down at her. Sandor Clegane's arms are crossed, broadsword still strapped to his back. He means to intimidate her.

Anya turns back to the black warhorse —calmer now since his rider has appeared— and pulls off her riding gloves. "I see where he must get his temper from," she remarks, tossing the gloves to a table. The stablehands would put them away with Shadow's saddle and blanket.

The Hound glances at her with callous indifference. "Aren't you supposed to be at the feast, girl?" Anya shrugs and reaches for the half-empty wineskin tucked in her cloak. The summerwine is cool on her tongue, and Anya takes a long drink from the skin before offering it to Sandor. He doesn't take it at first, still looking at her with a sour expression, but before she can tuck it back into her cloak, he takes it and turns the skin up, drinking a hefty amount of what's left.

"Could ask the same of you," Anya challenges. "Didn't think Joffrey would let his dog wander too far." Sandor snorts, surprised by the little lady's boldness to speak to him so crassly. She wanders away into the dark recesses of the stables and returns with a green apple. The Hound gives a curt nod, and she offers the piece of fruit up to the black warhorse. He takes it from her hand, almost gently, and lets her pat his neck without being nipped or kicked. "Does he have a name?"