Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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The stew is hearty and plentiful —it reminds her of the meals taken on cold nights at Winterfell when she still feigned being a kitchen girl. It brings back a rush of memories. Of Macey showing her how to make honey cakes, salt cure venison, and preserve spring berries. But then her mind drifts to Benjen, how they used to chase one another and climb the crumbling stairs of the Broken Tower. It never felt cold when she was with her brothers.

A gruff noise from Sandor's throat snaps her from the trance. Shella spake her thanks for him splitting another two moon's worth of wood. "Young man who used to help got called up to fight for the Crown," she explains, refilling their cups with a fresh brew of mulled wine. The Hound nods, too uncouth to respond with the proper courtesies. And not long after he's cleaned his bowl and emptied his cup, he leaves to tend the horses.

"I had a daughter," the woman muses with no preamble. "Imagine she'd look an awful lot like you by now." Anya Whent had the same color hair and grey eyes that could be cold as the winter frost or soft as the summer rains. But it's been nine-and-ten years since she last saw her daughter on the eve of the last day of that tourney. Shella Whent takes a long drink of mulled wine.

"What happened to her?" Anya asks, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. But in truth, she feels like she already knows the answer. It's me. It would account for the haunting sense of familiarity. Her mother had the same clear blue eyes as the widow, but time's turned her flax hair silver.

The widow glances down in her cup of mulled wine and then turns her weary gaze to Anya —there's an unfathomable type of sadness in her tired expression that's laced deep in her clear blue eyes. "She just disappeared one night." Shella still remembers the pain and grief as the days drew on, and no one could offer answers as to what had become of her daughter. After a year of no news, she finally let herself believe her lord husband —their daughter was gone. Dead.

"Sorry to hear that," Anya says, her voice suddenly meek. There's no denying it now. "What was her name?"

"Anya," the widow answers with a smile, looking down at her wrinkled hands. A cold chill creeps through Anya Stark's blood, but she cannot bring herself to say anything other than thanks —for tending her wounds, clothing her, and sheltering and feeding her and Sandor. It's time she rests anyways.

There's only one worn featherbed but enough straw in the small barn to stuff a dozen beds. Shella Whent sends Anya out with an armful of blankets for her and the Hound. He's asleep already —half-propped up against a mound of straw— and despite the earlier tears, she still feels her lips tug into a smile at the sight of him. And once her bed pallet is ready, Anya takes one of the extra blankets and drapes it over Sandor Clegane.

That night memories of Harrenhal flood her dreams. Of her mother, of her lessons with Septa Nyla, of the boy she always used to play swords and dragons within the castle's courtyard, and of the tourney that forever changed her life. Anya weeps silently and begins to wonder what would have become of her had she never run away from Harrenhal, had she never become Anya Stark.

The next morning, Sandor saddles their horses and packs the provisions offered by Shella Whent. He turns to Anya and lifts her onto Shadow's back before mounting Stranger. The widow steps to Anya's horse and strokes the grey-black mane tenderly. "Thank you," Anya says —knowing her mother saved her life. The Hound clicks his tongue, turning down the path back to the Kingsroad. But Anya digs in her satchel and finds a silver hair comb with black bats and yellow sapphires, an heirloom of House Whent. She holds the piece out for Shella to take but does not stay long enough to see her mother's reaction as she digs her heels into Shadow's side, racing ahead. "Anya!" It's best this way, mother.