Sandor Clegane woke in the dark of the night as a chill swept through the room. The fire was dying down. It did that more often as of late. He rose from the bed and tossed another log into the hearth before stoking the smoldering coals into flames again.
Anya was sleeping peacefully, buried beneath thick blankets and furs. She had caught a fever in her attempts to help repair the outer walls of the castle, despite the warnings from the people and Sandor. The chills and fatigue had bedridden her for two days now. A pallor had washed over the Lady of Harrenhal that almost made her look like one of the infamous ghosts said to roam the halls and burned towers.
The Hound crouched next to the bed and pulled out a slim wooden chest from beneath the feathered mattress. Iron hinges creaked and groaned as he raised the darkly stained lid. Even metal could not escape the wrath of winter.
His greatsword gleamed in the warm light, flames dancing in the silver steel. The unnamed sword was a familiar weight in his hand that felt good to behold again. It had taken a good while, but Anya had finally convinced him that he didn't need to tote it around the castle grounds every waking hour. A dagger would do if he insisted on being armed.
Beneath the blade was an iron-banded oaken shield with cracking orpiment paint and nine faded black bats. The sigil of House Whent. Oak and iron, guard me well, or else I'm dead, and doomed to hell. Sandor couldn't remember where he had first heard those words, but they had oft played through his mind whenever he hefted up a shield.
The hilt of Dark Sister was hidden behind the shield, but the Valyrian Steel rippled like water at even the slightest glint of light. He had watched Jon Snow cut down White Walkers and wights with a blade of Dragonsteel.
That was the type of sword everyone needed in the coming war, but in his hand, Dark Sister looked to be nothing more than a dagger. He heaved a deep sigh and replaced the Targaryen sword beneath the shield.
The Wall had fallen. Every fighter in Westeros needed to go North. To fight the Army of the Dead. The Great War was nigh unwinnable, though. Sandor had watched the Night King slay a dragon with a single spear. What hope did men have to defeat such evil?
"Sandor?" He placed the greatsword back into the chest and rose. "What're you doing?" She asked, voice dry and hoarse. There were dark circles around her eyes and a film of sweat on her brow but still, she shivered in the night.
A heavy black cloak fell over her, adding to the thick layer of fur and sheets that had been added to the bed. "Keepin' the fire going," he responded. Sandor lay back down next to her and lifted the arm closest to her. Anya moved closer to his warmth and rest her heavy head on his chest. His arm settled around her shoulders. "Get back to sleep, little rose."
Erac had told him that she had gone to send a raven to Winterfell. She worried about the state of the North after not receiving any word in over a month from neither Sansa nor Jon.
He walked into the rookery and found Anya sitting at the cluttered writing desk, reading over a crumpled slip of parchment that he thought he'd burned. The piece of parchment she held appeared to be one of the ones that the Little Bird had sent.
Her gaze shifted to him and he felt the full force of her harsh stare. Wordlessly, Anya rose from the desk and perhaps for the first time in his life, the Hound was afraid of what she was capable of. The parchment crinkled as her gloved fingers flexed. "How long have you been keeping these from me?"
There were more letters tucked away in the rookery than just the one she held now. "Anya-" he stepped forward but she shook her head and cut him off. "How long, Sandor?"
The Hound's hands formed fists at his side. He looked at the three ravens in their cages. "Just over a month," he rasped.
Her bottom lip trembled. "Why?"
It should have been a simple question to answer, but it wasn't. Nothing to do with love was ever simple. He'd hidden and destroyed the letters to keep her in Harrenhal, to keep her safe. "Seven hells, woman." The Hound ran his hand through his hair. "You're too fucking stubborn for your own good and I knew once you heard you'd be marching North and to your own doom."
He'd come close to losing her before and the images were still engrained into his memory. The sight of her curled up in an ally beaten and bloody. The way she'd bled after the Blackwater burned, and how a Frey had found her in the mud at the Twins, sword raised ready to kill another Stark. "I don't wanna lose you."
"And I don't want to lose my family!" She bit back in a venomous tone, the likes of which he'd never heard. "My nieces and nephews are in Winterfell! Jon is in Winterfell! That's where my family is!" Sandor moved to speak, but she held her hand up and silenced him, unwilling to hear anymore, unable to look at him. Anya pressed the crinkled parchment into his chest and left with tears stinging her eyes and the bitter taste of betrayal on her tongue.
Shella Whent ladled out a cup of warm spiced wine and passed it to her daughter. "I've never been so angry with him," Anya announced, holding the cup of wine. Her mother had noticed that harsh look in her eyes that showed no signs of fading.
She'd been angry with him numerous times since their chance meeting in the stables of Winterfell six years ago, but something about this made it different than all the other times she had shouted and scorned him. "It feels different this time," Anya whispered, looking at her reflection in the dark red wine.
"You're allowed to be angry with him," Shella paused and reached out to squeeze Anya's hand, "and you should be, but now is not the time to drive him away." She didn't want to drive him away, only make him see his error and apologize. Anya suspected she'd be six feet under before the Hound would even muster a poor apology.
"I think I just need some time to be alone," she noted, finishing off the spiced wine as she rose from the hearthside seat.
"It's awfully cold to be out there," Shella said, concerned for her daughter's wellbeing.
Anya stopped with her hand resting on the frigid metal doorknob and cast a quick glance back toward Shella Whent, who sat by the fire with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. "I'm a Stark," she told her mother, "the cold is an old friend."
Anya Whent had found an alcove against one of the towers where the ground was barren. There was no snow, no dying grass, only dirt. She pulled her hood up and sank down against the icy stone wall. There were many things available for contemplation and she thought most on what she could do for the North.
The time had passed quickly, and the deathly chill of the night had crept up. Which it was Erac Cleaber could not say. He'd left the stables when he saw her in the night. "Anya?" She didn't move.
Her lips had taken on a bluish hue, and her skin was pale and cold. Snow clung to her lashes and hair. "Anya?" Erac shook her shoulder and felt fear set in when she remained silent and still. He gathered her up into his arms and cursed the Hound for what he'd done.
A young servant girl that had arrived with Lady Shiera of House Terrick was tending to the fire in Anya's chambers. She cried out upon seeing the bluish pallor that had taken hold of the Lady of Harrenhal's skin. "Draw a hot bath and send for a Maester." The girl hastily nodded and set off down the hall.
Erac Cleaber stripped her down to naught but a translucent shift and wool stockings. Acting quickly, he pulled off his dark leather jerkin and tunic, holding her close against his chest with one of the bed furs wrapped around the both of them. His mother had told him body heat was one of the best ways to warm a living thing up. That'd been how they saved calves and colts in hard winters.
People scurried in and out of the bedchamber, bringing pots and bowls of hot water to pour in the wooden bath. Galbart Glover had rushed to her chambers at once upon receiving the news of Anya's state. "Where is the Hound?" He questioned, but Erac Cleaber shook his head of dark hair.
"Haven't seen him since he went to the godswood." Clegane had entered the godswood after storming out of the rookery, cursing himself and the woman he'd sworn his sword to.
Anya Whent felt strange like she was burning and freezing all at once. She stirred and noticed that the arms holding her were not as thick or muscled as the arms of Sandor Clegane. "Erac?" Black hair dusted his shoulders.
"What happened?" She asked. Everything still seemed blurred.
"You were in the night for too long, m'lady," Erac answered, wrapping the grey-brown fur of a bear around her. Galbart Glover was emptying the last kettle of water into the wooden tub. "We've drawn a hot bath, and I'll go fetch you something to eat."
Anya pulled the pelt of fur tighter and sank back against the wooden headboard of the featherbed. "Thank you." Her voice was broken and hoarse. Erac bowed his head and refitted his leather jerkin and cloak before slipping from her chambers.
After a moment, she rose and folded the piece of fur before wandering to the tub. The water was scalding but it took several seconds before that crept into her skin and bones. Galbart was standing near the hearth, looking down into the dancing flames.
"Galbart," Anya breathed, voice still quivering. She was not ready to be alone. The Northman turned away from the fire and spared her a quick glance. Color and warmth were beginning to return to her cheeks. The thin shift clung to her wet skin, transparent.
He sat against the wooden tub, arms crossed as he let out an uneasy sigh. "What I wouldn't have given all those years ago to make you mine." Galbart Glover had tucked tail and ran when he was five-and-ten asking for the hand of Eddard Stark's sister. It was her cruel words of rejection delivered with a gentle smile that had ensured her memory lasted for decades.
The longest of his copper curls could touch the water of the bath when he leaned his head back. "There were only ever two women that I have loved. My mother and you."
Some had spoken rumors that he was a widower, left without a successor, but that wasn't the truth of it. Anya gave a grim chuckle that seemed unintentionally cruel. "I have loved many men in my years-" she pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them "-my brothers, my nephews, and perhaps even you after you gave up the pursuit." Anya Whent saw his brow twitch, surprised to hear her mention him. "Yet there are only two men that have claimed my heart, Jory Cassel and Sandor Clegane."
Galbart craned his neck and smiled. "Then I shall continue to love you from afar."
Anya turned her gaze toward the fire and swallowed the lump in her throat. "Where is he?" That was a question she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer to. She was still angry with him and would be for some time, but Sandor Clegane was the man she loved and his absence worried her.
"I do not know-" he turned his deep blue gaze to the stone ceiling "-no one has seen any of the gates open, though."
Anya looked to the west from the broken tower and watched the snowfall. Even after seeing it so often, there was still something tranquil and beautiful about watching snowflakes dance in eddies of the wind.
The window that overlooked the Gods Eye to the south and the bench was nothing more than a splintering piece of wood nailed into the stone. This had been one of her hiding places as a little girl. She'd scale the tower with books and imagine days when dragons ruled the air. Now she no longer had to imagine.
The days of dragons had come again.
She leaned her head against the cold stone of the Widow's Tower. Anya came up here often as of late, whenever she needed time to think. No one but her and save a few brave children ever frequented the ruins.
"Anya?" A head of soft copper appeared in the staircase, fumbling to hold onto the uneven stone walls to avoid places where the steps had crumbled. On the deep grey doublet was a mailed silver fist on a field of scarlet. His sudden appearance startled her. She had not been expecting company. He was out of breath and not properly dressed for being in the cold.
The Lady of Harrenhal knew something was amiss. "What is it?" She inquired, rising from her perch.
"He's leaving," he uttered. Had her window seat been facing to the north then she would have seen the black horse and rider leaving through the gates of the castle.
Anya Whent felt her heart stop and stomach drop. Suddenly, she felt sick and guilty. "Get me a horse!" She shouted racing pass Galbart Glover to fetch her riding gloves and wool knitted scarf.
He was already a league from the castle. Sandor Clegane looked back. Only dark spikes remained visible on the white horizon. He carried a shield bearing the sigil of House Whent. He would fight in her name, fight in her place. That was the least he'd do after betraying her trust.
Wind bit at his skin, numbing the burned half of his face. It didn't seem right that the cold could burn just as bad as a fire. The seven hells must be made of ice and fire he thought, pulling the neck of his tunic up to cover his nose and cheeks.
The thick leather gloves grated when his grip on the reins tightened and the black mount began moving forward on the Kingsroad. It would be a long and hard journey to make it to Winterfell.
Anya rode hard and swiftly, cutting through the barren forest that intersected the Kingsroad. She only had to wait a few moments until a black figure appeared on the horizon. Her heels nudged the silver horse forward.
Sandor Clegane could not say if he was surprised to see Anya Whent waiting for him on the Kingsroad. The lines of her face were hard, her grey eyes like ice. This was not Anya Whent before him, but Anya Stark.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" She asked through gritted teeth. No one had seen him around Harrenhal for three bloody days and then the first news she'd received was of his departure.
The Hound shifted his gaze from her to the endless rolling hills of the Riverlands, now covered with a thick blanket of snow. "North," he replied.
Anya snatched the reigns from his hands and felt tears freezing on her cheeks as she shook her head, his place was by her side. "Like hell you are," she snapped. "If we do this, we do it together."
People had gathered in the courtyard to see the Lady of Harrenhal returning with the Hound in tow. They had passed their horses to a stable-hand and made the journey to their shared chambers in silence.
Anya pulled off her cloak and draped it over a chair near the fire. Sandor still stood by the door with an expression like stone. "Say something," she snapped, unnerved by the silence within the room and the silence that had followed them from the Kingsroad to Harrenhal.
"What'd you want me to say?" He growled, hands balling into fists at his sides. Sandor Clegane had always been a man of few words, but this was not the right time for him to keep to himself and words had never come easily to him. "Do you know how fucking simple my life was before you?"
Piercing laughter filled the cool air. "Let me guess," Anya mused taking a step forward, "you fought, drank, and fucked." His jaw tightened. He could recall the first time he'd thought about taking her. It had been in the tunnel beneath the Red Keep after her brother's neck had been snipped on the steps of Baelor. He'd drank too much wine and smelled of a whore's cheap perfume. "You still do those things, Sandor Clegane," she asserted.
He lifted his face and narrowed his eyes at her. The stiff red scar tightening on the left of his face, glowing black and crimson and bone-white in the mixed light of the hearth. The Hound took in the length of her form, following the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts.
"I wanted to hate you, woman," he snarled, squeezing his eyes shut. He'd wanted to hate her since the day he'd laid eyes on her and saw she was undeterred by his scars and rough demeanor.
She took another step closer to him, forcing him to crane his neck down to view the entity of her twisted expression. "But you couldn't," she rebutted. It had been a mutual feeling, neither of them could truly hate the other. Not after the years gone by.
There was a heavy pause where his gaze flicked down to her parted lips
Sandor tangled his hand into the locks of silken honey at the back of her neck and crushed his lips onto hers. Anya gasped into his mouth, fumbling to grasp onto the clasps of his leather jerkin. His hands trailed down her backside, stopping at her thighs, but only so he could lift her up. She bit down on his lip, hard.
"Why you got to be so fucking stubborn all the time?" He grunted, lips ghosting over her cheek down toward her neck.
One step back too far and they were falling onto the mattress stuffed with feathers and straw. Anya took his face into her hands and sighed. "You've no room to talk, Hound."
His arm tightened around her waist, drawing Anya back closer to him. His breath fanned across the back of her neck, warm and moist. "I know I shouldn't've done it." The words were uttered so low that they almost went unheard. "But I didn't want to lose you." She shifted, turning in his arms and found the sincerity in his voice was matched by the guilt in his dark gaze. "The Wall's gone. Don't know how much time we've got left."
Anya Whent bit her tongue. She'd seen the enemy with her own eyes and knew the odds weren't in their favor. But it seemed the odds had never been in her or Sandor Clegane's favor, not even as children. "We're survivors," she breathed before stretching to place a soft and quick kiss upon his maimed lips.
If they died, they died. But first, Anya Whent and Sandor Clegane would live.
