Prologue
"Whaddaya think a maid like 'er would go fer?" Sandor listened halfheartedly to a conversation being held a table over. The band of sailors were huddled around their table, all glossy eyed after drinking their fill of wine. "A pretty little beau'y, little gown 'n all. . . bet she's still innocent, whaddaya bet?" A young bawdy, pox-marked fellow slurred. His companions snickered.
"Like she'd even look at yer, ya stank like a pig and look worse than my mum." All but the young fellow laughed.
"Ya never even seen 'er, ya miserable cunt. She's locked up in tha Eyrie. No one ever seen 'er," an older lad quibbled, scratching his cheek.
"Ya, that stiff- what he called, Hugh?-Baelish? 'E keeps 'er up in the Vale all secret like," the men sipped on their mugs. "Wonder if the little beau'y ever split 'er legs fer 'im, eh?" They all wheezed on their laughter, cackling lewd comments under their breath. Sandor curled his fingers tightly around his stew spoon. The meal had cooled long ago, but Sandor found his appetite was lost. Fingers fiddling with the edges of his cloak, he pulled the hood tighter to his face. His hair had grown out long enough to partially conceal the hideous scars on the left side of his face, but still, he was weary of anyone noticing the terrible afflictions. Even after the few years he'd spent at the Quiet Isle abandoning his past, the Hound lived on, haunting Sandor. Stories of the bloody Lannister dog ravaging the Saltpans were never far from his ears. That was part of the reason he had traveled to Gulltown, he needed to get away from the tales. Down the river and resting on the Bay of Crabs, Gulltown was a large port city, full of new gossip and rumors. Most of the news was rubbish, but every once in awhile Sandor found something of importance.
Apparently Sansa Stark had survived Kingslanding after all, escaping Joff's bloody wedding and fleeing to the Vale. Littlefinger was of course responsible, Sandor wasn't surprised to discover. The little bird had used her wings, fluttering right into another cage, but this cage was much worse. Littlefucker knew the game all too well, thought Sandor. He's going to want something from her. . . . It made Sandor sick to think of what that might be, the plans he was constructing, what he had already done to her.
The previous Master of Coin had a well known affection for Tully maids, notorious for taking both Lord Hoster Tully's daughters to bed, snatching their precious maidenheads. Or so he claimed. The eldest of Lord Hoster's girls, Lady Catelyn, was said to have a daughter that was even lovelier than her, or so they all said. Sandor didn't doubt that the little bird had grown and her beauty with her. He remembered her well. Tiny little child and prettier than most of the ladies at court, perhaps the Lannister lioness herself, with auburn hair that glowed like licks of flame, burning against her pale skin. Such a stupid girl. But then again, she'd grown up with Lord Eddard Stark for her father, the noblest bloody man in the Seven Kingdoms. Lord Stark had come to Kingslanding with his honor sewn onto his sleeve, meddling in the lions' den. He hadn't been able to keep his mouth shut, overpowered by his precious honor, and yet he died for it. Killed by a boy king.
Lady Sansa Stark. . . last remaining heir to Winterfell. She outlived them all, Sandor pondered with regard. The sailors gave another bout of boisterous laughter and a growl bloomed deep in Sandor's throat. But can she survive Petyr Baelish and his game?
Sandor was about to summon for the tavern wench when screams sounded from outside. Men immediately drew their swords, the scraping of chairs definite as the chatter died down. The screams sounded again, followed by shouts and then footsteps.
The Hound had fought in many battles, led countless attacks, he knew the sounds of war as well as he knew himself. His lips pulled back to form a snarl and for the first time since leaving the Quiet Isle Sandor felt awake. He breathed in deep, nostrils flaring like a mad horse, blood hammering in his head.
The men rushed through the door out into the dark harbor streets, the stench of the sea overpowering their senses. Laughter twisted its way through the road, echoing through the fog. How many men were there? A hundred? A thousand? Sandor couldn't tell, but he knew they were close. Ripping the heavy hood from his head, he unsheathed his great sword. Not one man payed any mind to his scars, as he'd feared they might, but instead their attention was fixed on the strange cries. They were odd noises, battle cries of another kind, guttural shrieks.
The mob of men appeared around the street's crooked bend. Summer Isle men, was Sandor's first impression. Great black beasts, built like oxen, muscle corded thickly across their chests. Every other man towered over the cravens from the tavern. The only one that could compare in size was Sandor.
They carried torches, fire devouring the darkness, birthing shadows against the mud beneath their feet. The glow was bright enough to reveal their half naked bodies, which glistened with paint, the colors blazing upon their dark skin. The markings ran along their faces and arms, shoulders and chests, flowing in reds and oranges, spiraling with yellows. It was unsettling. They spoke in strange tongues. Their voices were deep and harsh. Their words, vibrant and savage, bounded loudly against the port's alleys and buildings.
A man in front gave a wild, unrestrained scream. The others stopped their march, turning their heads.
The men from the tavern had all drawn weapons, but stood on the street, struck silent. Light poured from the open door and illuminated the flakes of snow that swirled in the sea breeze. No one dared move. Sandor could almost hear the breath spilling from open mouths, and watched as wisps of mist drifted from the sailors' quivering lips.
A whimpering cry came from the horde of black brutes. The men parted. From the gash in the crowd came two men, each bound and gagged mercilessly. Blood poured freely from a slice on one lad's cheek, staining his ratty tunic. The other man looked worse. Each had vicious bruising, the most visible ones on their faces. Their features were swollen so terribly, their eyes had nearly shut, cheeks puffed up a yellow hue. The one man's armor glimmered in the firelight, but Sandor couldn't catch the sigil on his breastplate.
"Oh, please, no. No more, we beg you," the younger lad groaned through the cloth that choked him. His reply was a kick to the back, sending him sprawling into the mud. The other man kneeled willingly and spoke not a word.
So quick was he, Sandor barely caught sight of the stranger as he descended from the roofs above. He landed soft and silent, like a cat, rolling to his feet gracefully. His boots made not a sound as he stalked to meet the cowering men. He carried no sword upon his back, only a plain black cloak that fluttered in the breeze. The hood covered his face in shadow, making the only sign of life a thin stream of mist seeping from the stranger's mouth.
The army of Summer Isle men watched the stranger with rapture. He was obviously in command.
"Who do you pay allegiance to?" The man asked in a thickly accented voice. Braavosi. The boy shivered, whimpering. The other man gave no reply. The stranger asked once more. No answer. "Lions of Lannister, perhaps?" The boy began to sob, his cries echoing through the street. The tavern men waited, watching, more people had gathered to observe. "Lions have no place this far North," the stranger tilted his head to one side, crouching to eye level with the three prisoners as if mocking them.
"The Lannisters sit the Iron Throne, they rule the Seven Kingdoms," the man grunted. "Piss on your North!"
"Times have changed. The Lannisters are finished. Winter has come and the summer sun has set on their house."
"Please," the boy moaned. "Please, just let us go. . . please!"
"A man cannot do this," the stranger said in his silky voice. Each word dripped with leisure, as if the prisoners before him left the stranger completely unaffected. "A man owes a favor," the stranger stood, removing his hood, his mouth and nose were covered in black cloth. His hair fell forward and swept along his jawline-red and tousled. A bitter color, Sandor thought. Like dried blood. "Swear fealty, abandon your house, then perhaps you may live." The boy moaned into his rag, shoulders shaking violently.
"Swear fealty to whom, you filthy scum? There's only one throne," the man growled.
"Swear to the North, that is all that is asked."
"I'll not be swearing to some Braavosi fish monger," the man spat.
The stranger chuckled. "A man owes a favor, no more. It is not I you will pledge to."
"Then who bloody else?"
"She has many names. Faces, too. Some call her the she-wolf, but my people call her No One."
"I'll not swear to a nameless bitch-" the man stopped short, the words stuck in his throat along with an eight inch dagger. The attack had been so swift, some people watching hadn't noticed what had occurred. Sandor's grip tightened on his sword's hilt. Blood weeped down the man's neck, leaking along the dents in his breastplate. He gurgled, spurting blood from his mouth, eyes wide. The stranger wiped the blade on his cloak after sliding it from the man's neck. The man fell forward into the mud, blood steaming in the snow. The stranger grabbed the boy, now screaming with abandon, head rolling in fear. The stranger lifted the lad up by his tunic with a ferocious strength that shocked Sandor.
"No, no, don't kill me! I swear! I'll pledge, I promise, please," he cried.
"This man has a message in need of deliverance."
"Yes, yes, I'll take it! I'll do anything, just please let me me go!" The boy dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. "What is the message, m'lord?" Sandor held his breath.
"Find your masters, boy. Find them and tell them Arya Stark lives, that she has the prince and will take the North in the name of House Stark, the blood of Winterfell."
