DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on character[s] from George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire
GOING
Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere.
Even this far from the Mud Gate and the Red Keep, the smoke and smell of the fires were heavy in the air.
Sandor bent over Stranger's neck as the horse galloped towards the Iron Gate, and he peered ahead into the dark distance.
Only two.
Mayhaps the Imp had called more men away to ride off into a fiery death on the Blackwater or more likely he was not the night's first deserter, only the most recognizable.
"Make way!" he called, "Make way on the king's orders!"
They must have known him for he saw one guard turn away to lift the bar over the gate as another stepped into the road and lazily raised a hand to stop him, expecting him to rein his mount and identify himself and explain his purpose.
The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he's on fire.
He slowed Stranger to a canter, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword, and as soon as the guard stepped further into the road, he drew it and savagely slashed his throat before the man could even think to reach for his own sword. He did for the other guard before he had even fully turned around and, again kicking Stranger to gallop, was through the Iron Gate before the bastard hit the ground.
Sandor Clegane fled King's Landing without a backward glance or regret or thought to just how easy it had been. Had he thought of it, he may have snorted a scornful laugh. But he had no thought but one.
Away.