Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

тwo-αɴd-тweɴтy

SHELLA WHENT ISN'T ignorant to how Sandor Clegane sulks in a corner, looking at the honey-haired woman still laying on the table at the heart of her small cottage. "She'll be alright," the widow says after a while, the bite in her previous words vanishing with tiredness —or perhaps it's sympathy for a man in love but too stubborn or fearful to realize. The Hound huffs, feigning indifference, but she's not fooled by the ruse. A man with his reputation wouldn't've gone out of his way to help Anya Stark unless she meant a great deal to him.

"Too stubborn to die," he mutters after a long pause, and it brings a faint smile reminiscent of Anya's to the widow's drawn lips.

"Might be she's found the secret to living forever then," the widow replies, ladling out two bowls of stewed oats and bran. "Here." She presses a bowl of porridge into Sandor's hands and returns to her needlework —there isn't anything either of them can do now except wait for the gods to make their choice.

Anya wakes with a start —gasping for air as she sits upright. It takes several long seconds for her to settle and take in the surroundings of the small, homey cottage, only to realize she's naked from the waist up, the sheet protecting her modesty bunched up at her waist. There's a warm touch on her uninjured shoulder —like that of a mother. "Easy, girl." But the suddenness of waking brings the slow, dull throbbing in her shoulder and arm back to the forefront of her mind. "Know the brute who brought you here is Sandor Clegane" —the widow brings a small bucket of water and ladle, letting Anya drink greedily to rid her dry mouth of the lingering taste of blood— "but who are you?"

"Jocelyn Flowers," Anya lies, not daring to be so crass as to reveal her true identity to a stranger —even if it is only a kindly widow.

Shella Whent follows the girl's gaze to the sword and soot-black armor set aside in the corner nearest the door. "He's by the stables," she tells her. "Asked if he would split some wood for the fire."

Anya swallows the rising lump in her throat and nods as she glances at the cut of salted pork and a pile of half-chopped leeks and parsnips on a shorter table by the hearth. "I can help," she manages. For as long as the widow lets them stay, she'll do her share of the work.

But the widow shakes her head as though saying it's best if she rests. "I'll get you some clothes." Hers are strewn over the backs of rickety chairs, drying from being washed —couldn't fully clean the blood though, those stains would linger. Shella Whent returns with a frock too fine to belong to a simple countrywoman, a relic of a time long passed now. Anya dresses and then goes to seek out Sandor.

The Sun blinds her when she steps from the cottage, but she follows the sound of splitting wood near the small barn. The Hound hefts the axe over his head and brings it down in a quick swing. In all her time in the wilderness of the North, she's never seen someone chop wood with as much anger—hatred—as Sandor Clegane. Each piece splits easily under the blade of the axe.

He sees her when he turns to reach for a filled water canteen. It's an old dress of purples and blues that the widow gave her —too large given the strip of leather tied around her waist to keep the hem from dragging through the muck. But her feet are bare, and he can make out the linen dressings wrapped around her torso and shoulder. The wind musses her hair, blowing wisps of honeyed curls in front of her freckled face. She's pretty as a rose, and he hasn't the first idea of how to tell her, so he says nothing at all and turns back to the stump and swings the axe down again, splitting another log.

Anya turns back with downcast eyes and gathers her armor —now's as good a time as any to scrub the dried blood and mud from the metal. The chain links are broken where the arrow pierced through. The wooden basin of water turns from clear to a red-brown muck from the mud and blood. But she scrubs and scrubs, even after the links shine once more. "You'll do more harm than good if you keep at that," the widow says, stepping next to Anya. It's only then she realizes she's crying. Shella Whent kneels and stills Anya's shaking hands. "He cares for you," she assures the girl, "even if he won't admit it." She bites down on her bottom lip in an attempt to stay the tears. "If you still want to help with dinner" —the widow stands, hands pressing to the curve of her lower back with a grimace— "suppose you can stir the pot."