Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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"WHERE ARE WE?" Arya asks, pulling up a small bundle of turnips from the damp soil.

"Near Fairmarket. I think," the Hound rasps, not hiding his annoyance. Every day, Arya makes sure to ask, and every day she's rewarded with the same vague answer. It's been days since they last passed even a settlement, and weeks since what happened at the Twins. Anya frowns hearing the exchange —she doesn't know where they are either, but she knows they're headed in the right direction to get to the Eyrie.

"You think?" Arya scrunches up her face, unhappy with the Hound's answer. "You don't have a map?" She asks, continuing to pick off the leaves and stringy roots from the turnips.

"No. I don't have a map," Sandor bites back.

"Maybe we should get one," Arya suggests, shrugging as she sits on a smooth boulder.

Sandor stoops down to fill a cantle bag with water for Stranger. "Just point out the next map shop you see, and I'll buy you one," he grunts, standing back to full height.

Anya sits next to Arya and points at the few trees along the road clearing. "Moss grows on the north side," she tells the girl. On a tree or rock, moss almost always grew north-facing —away from the light. It must've been Benjen or Jory who first told her that, or maybe she read it in a book at Harrenhal. And they're going south. From the Twins to the Vale of Arryn.

"You're sure we're going the right way?" Arya asks again, not quite believing moss could work like a map. Anya cannot tell if the question is directed at her or Sandor.

"Believe me, girl," the Hound starts, "I want you gone so I can be on my way."

Anya glances in his direction. Her grey eyes hold a strange new hollowness, but she won't let him see how those words cut her. Heard there's a Dragon Queen too. Might be she'd like a proper lady in her court, he told her what must've been months ago —those hopes are gone now. "On your way where?" Arya asks.

"Why do you care?" The Hound snaps back, and then his harsh gaze wanders to Anya and softens. "Might book passage across the Narrow Sea," he says. "Fight as a sellsword. Second Sons could be. Seems like a good fit for me." It's all he knows —fighting and killing. Sandor Clegane figures he may as well get paid for doing it.

"Seven blessings to you," a man calls out from the seat of his slowing mule-drawn cart from the stone bridge above. A small girl peers around the man, looking down at the road-weary band of misfits.

Sandor eases his hand down the hilt of his sword. "What do you want?"

"What do I want?" The man asks, amused. "This is my land," he tells them.

"If I'm standing on it, it's my land," the Hound refutes —he won't back down from such an easy fight.

Arya hops to her feet and takes a few steps toward the bridge. "We were just watering the horses," she tells the man and girl. "We'll be on our way now." The answer suffices, and the man reaches for the reins of his cart mules again. "Forgive my father," Arya says suddenly. Both Sandor and Anya look at the girl, brows furrowed. "He was wounded fighting in the war," she continues. "Our cottage burned down while he was gone, and my mother with it." Anya sees the look of pity grip the man. "He hasn't been the same."

"Which house did he fight for?" The man asks. A question that'll determine how the rest of this interaction will go, no doubt —lions or wolves.

"The Tullys of Riverrun," Arya responds without indecision. It's the right answer judging by the way the man offers a slow nod.

"There's a storm coming," the farmer says, glancing from the road-weary travelers to the clouds above, dark and grey and heavy with rain. "You'll be wanting a roof tonight," he tells them. "There's fresh hay in the barn. And Sally here makes rabbit stew just like her mum used to." The farmer looks at the Hound, still hesitant. "We don't have much, but any man who bled for House Tully is welcome to it."