Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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WITHIN A FORTNIGHT, the stolen silver is gone —spent on a room at an odd inn and enough ale and wine they aren't able to set out again until nearly two days later for the Hound's drunken stupor. "Two of you aren't worth this much trouble," he slurs, staring at Anya across the table. The hearth fire has shadows dancing across her face, making her cheeks look rosy pink. Brings back the warmth he remembers from the nights spent at The Laughing Thief, but it can't conceal the new gauntness in her face from the weeks traveling since the Blackwater burned. His poor little rose is wilting before his eyes, and all he can bring himself to care about is his next cup of wine.

"We won't make it past the Hill Tribes on the High Road," Anya tells him, looking into her cup of water. "And even if we do, Lysa Arryn won't be who greets us at the Bloody Gate." Ser Donnel of House Waynwood will be who greets them —a young knight who won't be able to verify the truth of who Arya and Anya are like the Blackfish could've. But it's a waste of breath to tell him anything while he's in this state. She does anyway, though, hoping he might listen better while drunk since he no longer listens to her when sober. But by midday, he's passed out sitting at the table, and when he wakes up in the evening, it's only to ask for another flagon of wine.

The silence between Anya and Sandor the next day is uneasy when they finally set off towards the Vale again —even Arya can tell something's wrong. Something changed between them during their time at that inn.

Slowly, the gently rolling hills of the Riverlands transition into steeper hills, with crags jutting from the landscape after crossing over the Green Fork. Camp for the night is along one of the tributaries. The trees are sparse, and for the first time in a long while, they lay beneath the open sky with all the stars looking down upon them. It's a night like that when Anya turns onto her side and looks across the fire at Sandor. He's still awake, staring up at the heavens. There's little to be said —he made it clear back at that inn that she and Arya are just a purse of gold to him.

She blinks away the tears pricking at her eyes and looks back to the stars above, wondering if Jon can see the same night sky at the Wall. There doesn't seem to be much of a difference in the sky here compared to the long nights growing up in Winterfell. Gentle mother, look after him. And to the Old Gods, I ask you to do the same.

The dawn comes, and with it, another day of slow travel over increasingly rough terrain. Anya and Arya ride together on the palfrey from the Twins. They mention odd memories and stories from history —anything to keep darker thoughts at bay. Anya even promises her niece they'll practice in the morning with real swords, not just sticks.

"We're still another week away from the Mountains of the Moon," Anya comments, frowning as the sun begins to dip below the horizon when they stop to make camp —they're losing the light of day sooner with each passing week.

"Winter is coming." Arya echoes the words of her house, and she's right. The Starks are always right. The shortening days, the frostbitten plants —winter is coming. Just as Ned promised it would, just as every Stark promised.

Anya looks across the campfire embers at Sandor, picking at the wild onions and turnips they'd found when the rabbits and squirrels kept getting away. "We could set off earlier or ride further into the night," she suggests to the Hound. He doesn't reply. He only makes a gruff noise in the back of his throat. Her frown deepens.

After Arya's asleep, Anya rises from her bedroll and moves around the fire, sitting next to where the Hound lays. His perpetual silence over the last few days has driven her to madness —used to be they could have civil conversations, but now she's hard-pressed to get anything more than a few grunts and a stray sentence. "Why do you refuse to speak to me?" She asks. It's almost impossible to hide the heartbreak in her voice.