Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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WHEN THEY FOUND Theon Greyjoy in the Godswood, Anya Whent fell to her knees and wept over his body. Jon stood back near the Hound, knowing she could not be consoled. Theon may have wronged the Starks in the past, but Anya had finished raising him alongside Jon. She cried as if the spear had been driven into her own body and not his.

The tears stopped. Her legs felt weak, and she struggled to find the means to stand on her own. The blood running down her hip and thigh no longer concealed. Anya stumbled. Jon caught her arm before Sandor could. "Take her to get that looked at," Jon uttered as the Hound swept her off the ground into his arms.

"Put me down," Anya bade. Sandor set her back to the flagstone floor, clearly unimpressed with her pigheadedness but unwilling to argue. She stumbled down the dim hall and up a short flight of steps to the second door on the right.

Her chambers were as she remembered as if no one had dared enter during her absence. On her desk was an unfinished letter to Benjen and a dried wildflower Rickon had picked for her. Draped over the chair was a deep grey tunic, Jory's sigil embroidered on the breast. The ghosts of everyone she loved were there, but it was not yet her time to join them.

The leather armor fell away. She tried shrugging off the stained wool undershirt but gave a strangled cry at the sharp pain in her side. It felt like she couldn't lift her arm now that the battle had ended. Sandor took the dragonglass dagger from his belt and ran it down the back of the shirt. He stepped back and looked at her in the dim light. Her entire side was a giant welt of black, blue and purple with a cut at least three fingers wide at her hip. "Fuck. Don't look good," he noted.

"Don't feel good either," she responded in a dry tone. He dipped a rag into the washbasin and laid it on the bloody slit. If she moved too quickly it still bled, but at least there wasn't dirt and sweat soiling it any longer. Sandor tore a strip of cloth from her ruined tunic and wadded it up to press against the cut. He meant to get a maester or someone that knew how to properly clean and stitch a wound.  

"No. I just need some rest," she assured him, but he wasn't going to listen to that bullshit. Sandor Clegane had seen enough wounds in his time to know when one needed proper care. The two maesters were busy tending those less fortunate than Anya, but a wildling woman had offered to help.

Gilly entered her chambers with a small basket of supplies and Little Sam clutching her skirts. The boy sat near the hearth at his mother's bidding, occupying himself with a wooden sword that Anya had meant to give Rickon on his next nameday. Gilly unstoppered a vial of vinegar and dosed a piece of cloth it fore laying it on the cut. Anya squeezed her eyes shut as it stung, knowing what came next was worse. They hadn't anything to numb the pain. All the wine was being used to clean wounds and the ale was too weak. 

"This'll hurt," Gilly remarked taking the hooked-needle from the candle's flame. It was the first pass of the sharp point through her flesh that hurt the most. After that, it became a slow throbbing more akin to soreness than pain.

The sutures were done and covered, but now she tended to the jagged cut across Anya's left palm. It wasn't deep enough to warrant stitches, but Gilly cleaned it and wrapped bound it with a strip of cloth from one of her old tunics. "Thank you, Gilly." The wildling woman nodded, gathering her things back in the small basket and calling Little Sam away from the hearth.

Sandor sat on the bed and pushed his boots off. Age was catching up to him. Used to be after a fight all he wanted were a wench and wine, now he just wanted a few moments of quiet. Anya undid the ties on the back of his doublet without a word. He rose, taking off the thick leather and mail beneath.

Below his left eye was a budding bruise. Anya ran her thumb over the patch of discoloration, frowning. Sandor knocked her hand away. "You ain't got to worry with me, little rose," he told her, lying back on the featherbed. After the battle, it almost felt too soft, but he supposed it was better than a cold grave.