Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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It was dark when the fire started the die down and the cold began seeping in through the stone. He threw another log into the hearth and quickly stepped back at the sparks. Before he could come back to the bed, something was scratching at the wood door of her chambers. Sandor cracked opened the door. It took him a second until he looked down and saw the bloody wolf staring up at him with dark, red eyes.

"Ghost?" Anya called, voice hoarse. The white wolf padded forward, limping. Half his ear was gone and small cuts littered his muzzle, staining his white fur red and brown. He pressed his snoot into her outstretched hand and gave a soft whine. It was the first sound she'd ever heard him make. "Good boy," she whispered, patting his neck. The direwolf laid down at Anya's bedside, refusing to leave.

Anya entered the Great Hall to find the feast had already begun. It was good to see Winterfell filled with so much life in the wake of all that had been lost. She saw him sitting alone near the front of the hall and made her way toward him.

Sandor looked up when a bandaged hand fell on his shoulder. Her hair was braided, and the dress she wore was a plain shade of slate wool -almost the same color as her eyes. Anya sat next to him on the bench and reached for an empty cup and the pitcher of wine. "You should've woke me," she chided. If it hadn't been for the dying fire, she would've slept through the entire feast.

"You needed the rest," Sandor countered. Anya had returned to her chambers after the funeral pyres were lit, still weary from the battle and the efforts to restore Winterfell. It'd been three days and people were still finding corpses and bones of the Night King's army tucked away in odd places.

A young boy set a plate of hot food before her and slipped away before she could give thanks. Roast chicken with winter turnips and brown bread. Simple but plentiful and filling. A wagon of wine and ale had even been delivered from Widow's Watch after word went out of the victory.

People came and went. Asking how Anya fared. Word traveled quickly that she had been injured during the battle, though no one seemed to know the severity. The North adored her, just as they had adored Lyanna before her.

Daenerys Targaryen rose from her seat at the head of the hall and lifted her cup of wine. "To Arya Stark! The hero of Winterfell." Anya rose to her feet and held her cup aloft. She nudged Sandor. He shifted on the bench but didn't stand though she couldn't help but notice his reserved smile, a silent expression of his pride.

Tormund Giantsbane sat next to them, drunk and moping. Sandor Clegane draped a protective arm around Anya's shoulders, pulling her closer to his side. "You know how heartbreak feels?" He asked. The question more so directed to the Hound than her.

Anya looked over her shoulder to Brienne of Tarth and Jaime Lannister. The two were playing a drinking game with Tyrion and Podrick Payne, though they'd hardly taken their eyes off one another.

"I think everyone does," she told the ginger wildling. Sandor grunted.

The Hound glared at her as she rose to her feet, filled her cup and joined Samwell Tarly and Gilly two tables over -leaving him to deal with an inebriated and heartbroken Tormund. She smiled sweetly in his direction before taking the empty seat on Gilly's left. Little Sam had already been taken to bed.