Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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The fact somewhere as pure as this little cove can exist in the cesspit of King's Landing is astonishing. "By chance" —Anya toes her slippers off and presses her feet into the cool sand— "I like coming here early in the morning sometimes." She reaches for the pins holding back her hair, freeing them to a cascade of honey waves, and then she rises —unable to deny the song of the waves any longer.

Jory looks at her oddly before he realizes she's loosening the strings of her bodice. "What are you doing?" He asks, standing to brush off the sand sticking to the rivets and stitches of his coat of plates. "My lady?" She already stripped down to her linen shift —curves outlined by the sun. Jory flushes and averts his gaze, no matter how much he wants to look.

Anya steps to the water and stops to feel the spray of breaking waves kiss her cheeks and the surf tickle her toes. "Swimming," she tells Jory, looking back over her shoulder. "Won't you join me?" There's an unspoken challenge in her tone.

"We're not children anymore," he scolds. Childhood was years ago and cut short by Robert's Rebellion —even Benjen did not get his remaining days of youth when Ned rode off to fight. She only wants to feel an ounce of freedom and carelessness again.

Anya backs away from the water and goes to him, her hands reaching for the buckles and ties of his armor. She'll give him no room to protest. "No one is here to see, Jory," she tells him. Sansa and Arya are with the Septa and Ned with the Small Council. There is no better opportunity than now. She and Jory can be young lovers again —or at least pretend.

He shrugs off his tunic and strips down to his drawers, following her into the water. She falls into the water's embrace. It is cool, not cold like the rivers and lakes of the North. She remembers a time when Theon fell into the water when he was still a boy. Not even the Drowned God could have swum against the rushing currents, but Anya went after him, and the water cut through her like a thousand knives —so cold it burned. Jory and Ned were the ones to pull them from the water. But here, the waves are calm, as are the tides.

Water always seemed to have a way to wash away the woes of life. Jory Cassel pulls her to him and holds her with the push and pull of the waves. She rests her head on his shoulder, following the scars and nicks along his chest. It's all so calm compared to the life they must live above this quiet alcove, and Anya doesn't want to leave; doesn't want this to end.

She's overcome with a desire to kiss him. And she does without thinking much about it. "Forgive me, Jory," Anya breathes, her fingertips brushing over his cheek to the scar below his eye before her hand settles back on his neck. His brows furrow and dark eyes widen right before her lips brush over his, but it all fades in an instant.

Jory holds her by the hips, the linen of her shift clutched tightly in his fists. It feels like a dream —and only a dream. Kissing Jory feels good, and she knows she a fool trying to feign indifference. He presses one hand into the curve of her back and steals another kiss before she can pull away, but the color of shame rises to her cheeks. "Anya." Her name is a breathy sigh.

"Is that what I have to do so you'll say my name?" She laughs despite how her bottom lip trembles.

He pushes back the hair clinging to her cheek and runs his thumb over her jawline affectionately. "We shouldn't," he breathes, the word caressing her lips. They shouldn't, but she wants to —and he does too.

"I know," she whispers. And then she smiles, and her eyes start to twinkle as they once had in her youth. "No one else has to know." Jory's laugh is breathless, almost silent —it reminds him of sneaking off into the Wolfswood when they were younger. "We could meet here at night," she adds, gaze flitting down to his shoulders, where her hands lay. He likes that idea, and just maybe it can work.