Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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ANYA STARK GOES to Sandor Clegane and kneels before him with the small pot of salve and a piece of the linen Melly gave them. He tries shrugging off the need to have his burned arm cleaned and bound, but after enduring her scolding once, he doesn't care to have to listen to it again. Sandor removes his steel vambrace and pulls up the sleeve of his tunic, and lets her unwrap the soiled bandage. The flesh under the dressings is still raw and seeping, but if the burns pain him, he gives no hint of it.

She douses the burn with cool water, then dips her fingers into the last of the salve, gently spreading it over the worst of the burn. The Hound's stare is heavy, and she refuses to meet his gaze —focusing instead on rebinding the wound. "What did it feel like?" She asks, loosely holding his arm —the question cutting through the silence of the night. A deep furrow grows between his brows, not quite knowing if she means what it felt like when his arm caught fire during the duel with Beric or when Gregor pressed his face to the fire as a boy.

It's all the same, though, and no small wonder why half the seven hells are made of fire. "Hell," the Hound finally answers. "Smell was the worst part," he admits —the scent of burning hair and flesh won't ever leave him, especially not after the Blackwater, especially not after fighting Beric, and especially after not hearing his little rose cry out when the wood witches pressed hot iron to her flesh.

Securing the linen in place, she takes her leave, going back to her bedroll to tend her own healing wound. He watches her as she washes away the drying poultice and dabs fresh salve over the red and angry burn. It's tender and, in some places, is trying to blister and peel already —she thinks it's a good sign, so long as it doesn't suppurate. Sandor knows it'll leave a nasty scar after healing. Her lips twitch, a grimace of pain she doesn't want him to see.

Sandor rises from his bedroll and moves around the fire, taking the piece of linen from her hands as he kneels next to her. He wraps the bandage around her shoulder and ties it off —the feel of his rough hands grazing her back sends a cold chill down her spine and turns her skin to gooseflesh. Shaking away the lingering thoughts and feelings, she pulls her ruined tunic overhead. "North," he says with a blank expression and flat tone. "We'll find your King in the North," he tells her. She stares at him, lips parted and nigh trembling with the thought of seeing Robb and Catelyn again, Jon too, if they go that far.

He watches her —the rise and fall of her chest, the way her messy honey hair falls in front of her face— and waits until sleep takes her. The Hound stokes the fire with a branch and then slinks off into the woods, retracing the path they took earlier in the day.

Anya jerks awake and scrambles to her feet, drawing her sword from its sheath when she hears shouting. It's not until she looks over her shoulder that she realizes she's alone —Sandor's gone, but his bedroll is still there, and Stranger is hitched to a young sapling, nickering at the sound too. She steadies her blade and traces over the dark shadows of the forest, listening as the shouting grows louder. A tall, shadowed figure emerges from the tree line with something —someone— slung over its shoulder, kicking and thrashing like a wounded animal, swearing too.

Sandor strides forward from the woods, and Anya sheathes her sword, watching with wide eyes as he dumps the girl slung over his shoulder onto the ground —next to Anya's bedroll. "Arya!" She exclaims, kneeling to check her over for any scratches or scrapes, but there are none, just dirt and a dark ire in her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Ask him," Arya snarls, glaring at the Hound. Had looks alone been enough to kill a man, Sandor Clegane would be six feet down in the cold iron earth. "He's the one who hauled me here," she tells her aunt, a venomous bite in her tone.

Anya looks across the fire at the Hound and lifts a brow in question. "Ransom." He shrugs. Arya crosses her arms, and Anya's brows settle in a deep furrow. "Both of you," he adds, and it feels as though there's a twisting knife in her gut.