Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings.

SANDOR WRAPPED AN arm around her waist, pulling her up against him beneath the patch blanket of pelts. He enjoyed the sight and feel of her breasts pressing into his chest. Anya laid her hand on the scarred half of his face. Soft beams of sunlight shone through the small slot windows of the lord and lady's chambers. Duty would call soon or the maester would come knocking, but until then they would relish in these rare moments of peace.

Rough hands trailed down her sides, lingering over her scars. Anya draped her leg over his waist and used the leverage to place her lips upon his. Sandor groaned and decided if every day could begin like this one he would be the happiest man in Westeros.

One of his hands found the wet heat between her thighs. She whimpered against his neck as his fingers spread her open. "Fuck, little rose," he hissed, voice low and rough, unable to keep his desire restrained –it'd been weeks since he'd taken her.

"That's gross," a small voice said from the door.

"Arya!" Anya shrieked. She scrambled to push Sandor away and gather up a pelt of fur to cover herself as she sat up, back ramrod straight. Arya Stark had never seen her aunt turn so red –not even when whispers got out during a harvest feast that someone had spotted her and Jory Cassel lying together in the stables one night after an evening ride. "How long have you been there?" Anya asked, unsure if she really wanted to know.

Arya shrugged, glancing down at the dirt beneath her nailbeds. "Few minutes," she answered, indifferent. The Hound grumbled something indiscernible under his breath. The girl clasped her hands behind her back. "Glover said they'll be here by midday," she announced before retreating down the hall.

Anya Whent pressed her face into Sandor's chest and heaved a deep sigh, knowing it was time ready for the day and tend to her duties. Thick, calloused fingers worked their way through her honeyed hair –now tinged with silver. Reluctant, the Lady of Harrenhal pulled herself away from Sandor and rose.

He watched as she moved around the room –gathering up her discarded stays and shift– with the faintest of smiles. Time and age had tempered her once sharp features into soft curves, but the strength in her was still evident, even in simple movements. Anya slipped into the coarse woolen shift and met Sandor's lingering gaze in the mirror's reflection. Despite everything, she still flushed under his intense stare.

The reserve of Northern troops regrouped with those who had lived through the decimation of King's Landing. After conferring with the men and Sansa, they agreed the next two days were to be given for rest, but on the morn of the third day, they would march on the capital.

Sansa, Arya, and Anya rode at the head of the Northern forces. Two wolves and a bat –but they all had claws and sharp teeth to bare. Trailing behind were Sandor, Brienne of Tarth, Ser Davos, and a cart pulling Bran. The armies of the Vale and Riverlands rallied behind Robin Arryn and Edmure Tully. The three factions melded into one just outside the ruined Dragon Gate of King's Landing.