Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

ғιғтy

April 14th. #ForTheThrone

SANDOR CLEGANE WOKE in the dark of the night as a chill swept through the room. The fire was dying down. It did that more often as of late. He rose from the bed and tossed another log into the hearth before stoking the smoldering coals into flames again.

Anya was sleeping peacefully, buried beneath thick blankets and furs. She had caught a fever in her attempts to help repair the outer walls of the castle, despite the warnings from the workers and Sandor. The chills and fatigue had bedridden her for two days now. A pallor had washed over the Lady of Harrenhal that almost made her look like one of the infamous ghosts said to roam the halls and burned towers.

The Hound crouched next to the bed and pulled out a slim wooden chest from beneath the feathered mattress. Iron hinges creaked and groaned as he raised the darkly stained lid. Even metal could not escape the wrath of winter.

His greatsword gleamed in the warm light, flames dancing in the silver steel. The unnamed sword was a familiar weight in his hand that felt good to behold again. It had taken a good while, but Anya had finally convinced him that he didn't need to tote it around the castle grounds every waking hour. A dagger would do if he insisted on being armed.

Beneath the blade was an iron-banded oaken shield with cracking orpiment paint and nine faded black bats. The sigil of House Whent. Oak and iron, guard me well, or else I'm dead, and doomed to hell. Sandor couldn't remember where he had first heard those words, but they had oft-played through his mind whenever he hefted up a shield.

The hilt of Dark Sister was hidden behind the shield; the Valyrian Steel rippled like water at even the slightest glint of light. He had watched Jon Snow cut down White Walkers and wights with a blade of Dragonsteel.

That was the type of sword everyone needed in the coming war, but in his hand, Dark Sister looked to be nothing more than a fragile dagger. He heaved a deep sigh and replaced the Targaryen sword beneath the shield.

The Wall had fallen. Every fighter in Westeros needed to go North. To fight the Army of the Dead. The Great War was nigh unwinnable, though. Sandor had watched the Night King slay a dragon with a single spear. What hope did men have to defeat such evil?

"Sandor?" He placed the greatsword back into the chest and rose. "What're you doing?" She asked, voice dry and hoarse. There were dark circles around her eyes and a film of sweat on her brow but still, she shivered in the night.

A heavy black cloak fell over her, adding to the thick layer of fur and sheets that had been thrown onto the bed. "Keepin' the fire going," he responded. Sandor lay back down next to her and lifted the arm closest to her. Anya moved closer to his warmth and rest her heavy head on his chest. His arm settled around her shoulders. "Get back to sleep, little rose."

Erac had told him that she had gone to send a raven to Winterfell. She worried about the state of the North after not receiving any word in over a month from neither Sansa nor Jon.