Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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"YOU NEED TO leave," Jon told her. Anya furrowed her brows, shook her head. She wasn't going to leave him surrounded by people who thought he was a threat to the Dragon Queen. He laid his hand over her swollen cheek. "There'll never be peace if she sits on the Iron Throne," he rasped. She already knew that, though. He turned his gaze to the rubble beneath his boots "She threatened Sansa and Arya." Daenerys Targaryen wanted the whole of Westeros under her heel and she would take it with fire and blood. 

"Jon." There were a thousand things he could hear all uttered in only his name. Anya sighed, looked behind her where Sandor stood messing with a bandage on his hand.

"This isn't something you can help me with," Jon said, peering over his shoulder at what was left of the Red Keep. He'd spoken with Tyrion, too. Jon knew what he had to be done. Duty is the death of love he could almost hear Aemon Targaryen uttering those words into the darkness at Castle Black –a fiery red flashed across his memory, mingled with silver snow. We should have stayed in that cave, Ygritte.

Anya stood rooted in place, bottom lip trembling. Jon knew she'd drive the blade into Daenerys's heart if it meant he and her brother's children would be able to live in peace. It wasn't her place to make such a decision, though. Jon Snow kissed Anya's temple and embraced her for what may have been the last time. "Take her and go," he said, stepping back and glancing toward Sandor Clegane. The Hound could haul her away kicking and screaming if he had to and Jon trusted he would.

The black beast was perched on one of the city's guard towers, periodically shaking the snow from his scales. Surveying the city and sky above. No one was to enter or leave the city without the express command of the Dragon-Queen. Drogon let out a loud cry as Anya and Sandor approached. "Lady Anya," Daenerys greeted with a spurious smile, turning from a long map table and dismissing the Dothraki and Unsullied commanders.

Anya felt like she couldn't look the Dragon Queen in the eye after what happened to the city, but she did anyway. Hatred made her grey eyes sharp as Valyrian Steel. The bells tolled in surrender and she still burned them all. Thousands of innocents killed. Women, men, and children alike. It made her sick. And still the slaughter of unarmed prisoners continued. Enough blood had been split.

She pulled her lips into a taut line and lowered her head, refusing to bend the knee. The game was not yet over and her grip on the hilt of Dark Sister was tight. All it would take was one well-timed swing. "Congratulations, Your Grace. The city has fallen."

Daenerys stepped within her arm's reach -a test to see if she would draw the sword from its sheath. "You spoke to my prisoner. What of?" The white-haired queen was beautiful and terrible, just like her dragon.

"I consider Tyrion a friend, forgive me if I wanted to ruminate on the past for a final time," Anya answered, a sharp edge in her tone. Dany said nothing more, though the way her face twitched said far more than words ever could. "I request leave to return to Harrenhal."

"Of course," Dany acquiesced -Anya Whent's leave would mean one less obstacle to her new world. The Dragon Queen turned to one of the Unsullied and spoke in a language Anya thought to be High Valyrian. Moments later, a soldier came holding the reins of two horses. The mounts of Dothraki screamers killed in the battle. One silver, the other tan. Daenerys looked between the horses and Anya Whent with Sandor Clegane at her back. "May these horses bear you to better fortune than their previous riders."

Sandor took the tan beast and left the silver for Anya. She stroked the neck of the horse and looked back at the Targaryen girl, sealing her fate here in Westeros with a forced smile. "Thank you, Your Grace."