Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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Sandor watches her descend into the lower level, where thick iron bars and steel curtains bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen mark age-old dragon stables. There's a shimmering stone of blue in the moonlight hidden amongst the debris in one of the smaller stalls. But it's not a stone. It's a dragon scale, rough like leather and hard as any steel. Anya holds the scale up in the moonlight, but a faint green glow catches her attention. The wall gapes in one of the corners, and curious, Anya follows the green light —tucking the blue scale into her belt for safekeeping.

It's a long room lined with full and heavy shelves and ledges, stretching as far as she can see in the darkness. Wildfire, she realizes, stumbling backward, enough to destroy what's left of the Dragonpit and half of the city. Sandor's heavy footfalls startle her when he descends into the dark depths following her. He glances around at the cache of wildfire. He's not seen the glowing green vats before, having only ever heard rumors from Varys and Pycelle in passing, and there's fear in his eyes, even if he tries hiding it. "The Mad King had caches hidden all over the place when we came to take the city," he says.

Anya picks up one of the small clay jars and holds it against the glow of the opened vat —there's scarcely any dust on it. She cannot make it make sense. Wildfire hasn't been used in battle for an age. "These jars haven't been here since then," she notes, carefully returning the jar to its place among those lining the stone ledges. But then she recalls the scrolls and parchment scattered around Tyrion's table when taking lunch and discussing the city's defense against Robert's brother. War is coming, and Stannis's men will burn.

The Hound reaches for her, hand gripping her shoulder. They've lingered too long —seen things they ought not to have. "It's best if we get back, little rose," he tells her. She nods her agreement and follows him from the caverns back into the arena floor of the Dragonpit.

Stranger whinnies and stamps his hoof when they emerge from the shadows. The great black warhorse did not much care for the ruins. The Hound takes the reins and soothes Stranger by patting his withers —he may have cared for few things in his life, but his horse is one of them undoubtedly. Anya steps next to Sandor, and he turns, hands going to her waist to lift her up and into the saddle as though she weighs nothing. Then he mounts behind her, and they turn from the Dragonpit and make the slow ride through the streets back toward the Keep.

For the time, whatever anger she bore toward him is gone. And as much as she hates to admit it, having his solid chest behind her is a comfort that reminds her of home. Of Benjen, Brandon, Ned, and Jory. Anya holds fast to the blue scale in her grasp and unabashedly leans back into Sandor. It's a slow, steady ride back to the Red Keep through the quiet streets, and when he thinks she's fallen asleep, his arm settles around her middle, holding her a bit closer. She's a rose, pretty and delicate with thorns hidden beneath the petals, and he's foolishly gripped the stem.

"LADYBIRD LADYBIRD, FLY away home" —Petyr Baelish appears at her side, matching her stride— "Your house is on fire, and your children are gone." His singsong voice sends chills crawling down Anya's spine. She does not greet him —has nothing to say to a slimy little weasel like him. Littlefinger makes a queer noise as he takes in the bruised half of her face —an unpleasant mark on an otherwise comely lady of the court. If Trant struck a little harder, he might have made her ugly. "A hound and a wolf," he starts —the discolored half of her face reminds him of the Hound's scars. "That's what the little birds whisper." Petyr Baelish thinks there's truth in the rumors given the way Sandor Clegane looks at her.