SANDOR
In mere minutes, the Crossing had descended into mayhem and butchery. Below the two castles, the proud soldiers of the North and the Trident were dropping like flies, cut down by Frey and Bolton men-at-arms as they fled, or burned alive in their tents; Sandor Clegane could barely hear himself think for the sound of screams and steel. And I thought Joffrey was an evil cunt, he mused as he slid on his dog-head helm.The Freys will burn in seven hells for this.
"My brother…" Arya Stark was saying, standing from beneath the overturned wayn. The She-Wolf's eyes were wide, shimmering in the reflected light of a thousand fires.
"Dead," he snapped, scowling. What the hell does she think is happening? "Do you think they'd slaughter his men and leave him alive?" He glanced again to the butchery in the camps, gesturing with the blood-soaked axe he had stolen. "Look. Look, damn you."
Even as he spoke, two knights bearing the banner of House Vypren rode down a fleeing Stark man-at-arms, their swords flashing downwards. The catapult on the roof of the castle above them thrummed, and a barrel of flaming pitch exploded atop a massive canvas pavilion flying the giant of Umber, engorging the blaze already consuming it. So much fire, Sandor was thinking with a shudder, when he realized with a start that the music had stopped; where a moment ago "The Rains of Castamere"had been booming from the West Castle above the sound of the massacre beneath it, now the hulking stone structure had gone eerily silent. Shaking it off, he turned back to Arya.
"Come with me." He extended a hand. "We have to get away from here, and now." Under him Stranger threw back his head, his nostrils flaring. The warhorse didn't want to linger a moment longer, and neither did Sandor; still, though, he held out his hand to the lost-looking little girl standing beneath him, waiting. Getting yourself killed isn't worth her ransom, part of him knew. Run while you can, leave her if she wants to die with her brother. And yet he lingered, as rain pattered on his helm and ran down Arya's long pale face, like tears.
"We're here," she insisted, her voice high and thin. She was about to say something else when a wave of riders broke upon the burning camp, bellowing warcries as they swarmed around tents and pavilions, swords and axes and spears poised to strike. There must be a thousand of them he realized, his heart sinking. We waited too long. There is no escape for us now.
"Get behind me." He barked, raising his axe and wheeling Stranger about. Arya obeyed, snatching a dagger from one of the men he had killed as she ran. Sandor Clegane almost chuckled at the sight. At least we'll both die fighting, she and I, he thought, steeling himself as a small group spotted them and broke off, bringing their horses to a canter as they approached the overturned wayn.
"And who would you be fighting for on this fine night?" Called their leader, a thin, lanky man as tall as Sandor, with an equally long, hooked bill in his hands. The silver eagle of Mallister was emblazoned on his surcoat, the same as the men who had ridden into the castle a while earlier, though Sandor didn't know if Lord Jason was one of the traitors, or true to the Young Wolf; he had seen Haighs, Charltons, and Vyprens taking place in the killing along with the Freys and Boltons, all vassals or close allies of Lord Walder.
"I might ask you the same." He finally retorted, bringing Stranger forward out of the gatehouse's shadow.
"For the one true king, Robb Stark," the man began, though he trailed off when he saw Sandor's helm, sucking in breath as the other riders in his group shouted in shock.
"It's the bloody Hound!"
"Kill him, Tom! Kill him!"
"Seven hells!"
"Lannister dog!"
That's right, you cunts, be afraid, he thought, smiling crookedly under the helm. Men who are afraid die easier.
The tall man sat in shocked silence for several moments, then surged forward quicker than Sandor could blink. His bill's hook found a chink in Sandor's armor at the shoulder and he pulled back hard; before he could swing his axe, he was tumbling from Stranger's back, landing on the wet ground face-first. Mud surged through the snarling steel dog's mouth and into his face, foul-tasting and rank with blood. He twisted onto his back, groping for his axe, but that only made the mud run into his eyes, stinging like hellfire. Then the tall man's bill was at his throat, his boot on his chest.
"Lyonel," he called, his eyes never once leaving Sandor's. Smart man. Otherwise, I'd have already shoved that bill up your ass. "Fetch Ser Martyn, tell him it's urgent."
A barrel-chested man with flaming red whiskers nodded, turning his own garron and galloping off towards the main camp. Once he had gone, the tall man tightened his grip on the bill's haft so hard that his knuckles turned white, his brows furrowing.
"Now tell me, Sandor Clegane, what the bloody hell are you doing here?"
"He was bringing me," Arya suddenly said, stepping out of the shadows before he could find the words. She walked slowly and cautiously, the stolen dagger raised as her eyes shifted from man to man. Several guffawed and sniggered, but the tall man remained relatively composed.
"Some farmer's daughter you made off with, Clegane? I didn't know you liked yours so young." The circle of riders around them roared with laughter at that, but the She-Wolf simply stamped her feet, red-faced and indignant.
"I'm not some farmer's daughter, you stupid, I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell! That's my brother and my mother being killed in there!" A hush fell over the men, and Sandor grinned despite himself. "You said you served King Robb," she continued after a long moment of silence, "so take me to him!"
The tall man was about to reply when another voice spoke up from behind him.
"Let me see your eyes, girl."
Blinking through the mud, Sandor shifted to watch as a brown-bearded man with the Tallhart sentinel trees on his armor stepped forward, the red-whiskered man at his side.
"What?" She lifted the dagger warily, pointing it towards him and stepping back.
"I just want to look at your eyes," he persisted, setting his sword flat on the ground and raising both hands in the air as he approached, "to be sure that you're telling the truth."
Starks have grey eyes, he suddenly remembered. Lord Eddard's own had been the color of wrought steel, harsh and unyielding; Sandor had seen them wide with shock when he joined the Gold Cloaks in cutting down his guardsmen before the Iron Throne. Arya's were only slightly softer, but they were often marred with loathing when she looked at him, the fiend who killed her precious butcher's boy. Sansa, though, was more Tully than Stark; her eyes were a deep blue, kinder and more beautiful, just as she was. In her chambers, while the Imp set fire to the Blackwater, he had lost himself in those eyes, for a moment wanting nothing more than to kiss his Little Bird then and there and stop her chirping. I made her sing instead, he recalled bitterly. It all seemed a lifetime ago. In front of him, Arya slowly lowered the dagger, letting the Tallhart step forward, though she never loosened her grip on it. The man took a knee, his plates sinking into the thick muck, and leaned forward, looking her dead in the eyes.
"Gods be good," the knight finally said, his head bowed, "Lady Arya…" A wave of murmuring rippled through the mounted soldiers; even the tall man looming over him looked awestruck. "My lady, we must needs get you far away from this madness as soon as possible. Someone, fetch a horse!"
"No, you don't!" She protested, crossing her arms. "My family is in there, we have to save them!"
"Lord Jason and his personal company of guards are saving the king and Lady Catelyn as we speak, my lady. They'll be alright, I promise you, but we have to keep you safe as well."
"No." Arya declared, implacable. "You'll take me in there this very moment, I command it, or else my brother will hear of this!" Sandor laughed aloud at that, ignoring the mud in his mouth. Seven hells, the girl has spirit. Good thing her sister isn't so cocksure, or Joffrey would've had her pretty head off months ago.
"Very well." The knight replied grudgingly, turning to the tall man. "Long Tom, take your men and escort Lady Arya inside. Find her family, and try to avoid the fighting if you can help it." Then his gaze fell on Sandor, who was finally able to stand again, and his fatherly-looking features turned hard. "I have half a mind to cut you down where you stand," he said bluntly, "but I'd like to think that I'm an honorable man. You will go with Tom and the escort, and explain to Lady Catelyn exactly what you were doing with her daughter. You will await her judgment and the king's afterward. Rivers, bind him."
Before the tall man could move, Sandor took one huge step forwards and headbutted the Tallhart. The man's helm took the brunt of the blow, but one steel tooth caught on his lips and dragged downwards, splitting both of them.
"I will not be bound, old man." He snarled in tones that brokered no argument, as blood spilled into the knight's thick brown beard. To his credit, he never so much as flinched, meeting Sandor's eyes through the dog's head and responding calmly.
"You test me, Clegane. Do you want to die, is that the way of it? When you're so close to finally getting the ransom that you surely seek? If so, Long Tom would be happy to oblige you."
Sandor could feel the man with the bill moving up behind him, see the riders around them grasping their swordhilts, and suddenly the fight left him. He was tired of fighting.
"Fucking cunts," he muttered, holding out his hands. The tall man with the bill, whom the others called Long Tom, stepped around him and bound his wrists together with a length of hempen rope, eyeing Sandor warily as he worked. Smiling smugly even through his cut lips, the Tallhart knight retrieved his sword and mounted his horse again, a handsome grey palfrey.
"I'll join you in the castle as soon as we finish here." He called, pulling down his visor. "Good luck, Rivers."
After he galloped back into the main fray, Tom's men dismounted, three guarding Arya, three guarding Sandor, and the other eight spread out in a loose circle around them as they crossed the lowered drawbridge, their swords ready.
"He called you Rivers." Arya said, looking up at Long Tom. "Doesn't that mean you're a bastard?"
"Aye." He replied, smiling. "Tommard Rivers, if it please milady, but most just call me Long Tom. Some petty riverlord sworn to House Mallister had me on one of the castle maids while they were visiting Seagard, but for the life of her my mother can't remember if he was a Lolliston or a Keath, and Lord Jason didn't think it would be proper to go 'round asking. She turned me over to the captain of guards when I came of age, and I've been a soldier ever since."
Not a moment after he finished speaking, one of Sandor's guards fell with an arrow in his gullet, blood pouring from the wound onto the slick wet wood of the bridge and flying from his mouth when he tried to scream.
"Archers above!" Tom cried. "Go!" Sandor lifted Arya into his arms (no easy feat with both hands bound), and the entire party broke into a sprint for the other side. Frey arrows continued to rain down on them from the West Castle's battlements as they ran, claiming two more men before they reached the portcullis and the inner chamber, panting. Just as Sandor set her back onto the floor, though, pain lanced though his shoulder, and he fell to one knee with a grunt.
"Murder hole! In the ceiling!" Someone shouted, before he went down with a quarrel in his chest. Another man had been killed after him by the time the red-whiskered man, Lyonel, was able to shoot the Frey defender through the hole with his own crossbow, bringing the band of fourteen down to nine.
"It looks like we may have need of your services after all, Clegane." Tom produced a dagger from his belt and quickly proceeded to slash Sandor's bonds, grudgingly handing him back his mud-covered axe.
"You're hurt." Arya pointed out, gesturing to the quarrel sticking from his shoulder. It hadn't penetrated deep, but blood was leaking from the wound all the same, flowing lazily down his arm and back and side.
"This is the bite of a flea." Sandor growled, snapping the quarrel's end off and pressing forwards ahead of the group, axe in hand. The great oaken doors to the main hall were closed, muffling the sounds within; before them, three Frey men-at-arms were falling on a Piper, a Stark, and a dying Vance, led by a knight whose steel plates bore the Charlton mistletoe. Breaking into a run, Long Tom shoved his bill's stabbing point through the nearest Frey's back; he had already wrenched it out and moved on to another when Sandor and the others caught up to him, making quick work of the common soldiers. The Charlton knight proved more resilient when they cornered him against the doors, killing one man and wounding two more before Arya slipped around him and drove her stolen dagger into the back of his knee. Sandor proceeded to brain the wounded man with his axe, while Lyonel pinned him to one door with a quarrel.
"Thank you," the Stark man gasped as the Piper rushed to the Vance's side, lowering a bloody carving knife. "By the gods, thank you… Ser Arryk, the Freys, we were drinking with them, laughing, and then they… Ser Marwyn…"
"They will pay for what they have done tonight." Tom declared, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "With blood and gold and honor, they will pay."
As the Vance died, Tom and the others wrenched open the opposite door; inside, the armored Mallister riders that had crossed the drawbridge earlier had dismounted, and were currently dragging Walder Frey bodily from his throne, despite the old man's feeble kicks and protests.
"It wasn't me," he was saying to the Mallister commander a, tall man whose long, dark hair spilled out the back of an eagle-head helm, "I swear it… Lame Lothar and Ryman, it was them, they forced me to go along, they threatened to kill me! They were conspiring with the Lannisters, and Roose Bolton too…"
The commander slapped Lord Walder hard across the face, making no attempt to hide the rage in his voice.
"Hold your lying tongue, traitor, lest I dirty my blade with the vile filth that flows through your veins in place of blood. Be grateful that King Robb will strike your head off as soon as he is able; I would not make your death so easy."
"Ser Torrhen!" Tom called, striding across the room at the head of the group, his bill in hand.
"Rivers?" The commander looked up from Lord Frey, recognition clear in his voice. Then he saw Sandor, and his sword sang as it slid from its sheath. "What is this, Tom? What in seven hells is he doing here?"
"Bringing you bloody northmen your she-wolf." Sandor threw back, gesturing to Arya.
Ser Torrhen froze, incredulous.
"She-wolf?"
"Ser Torrhen," Tom declared, backing away to reveal the girl, "I give you Arya Stark, Princess of Winterfell."
Torrhen and his men stood dumbstruck, and the room fell silent but for Walder Frey.
"Heh. Heh. You say Arya Stark, I say some farmer's whelp."
Tommard scowled, and Torrhen's gauntleted hand came flashing down again, drawing blood this time, a weak trickle that flowed from bare pink gums.
"She has Lord Eddard's grey eyes," Tom growled, "Ser Martyn Tallhart himself has confirmed it. Her legitimacy is not in question, Frey."
Lord Walder grinned a bloody, toothless grin.
"Heh. Grey eyes could mean a Stark, indeed, but they could also mean a Karstark, or a Flint, or a Bolton, or a Cerwyn… in fact, I seem to recall that grey eyes run in some branches of House Mallister. And here she is, brought back from the dead by Lord Jason's own men, heh. Isn't that convenient?"
"Gag him," Torrhen Mallister snarled through gritted teeth, glancing to one of his lieutenants, "and toss him in a cell with the others. I can't bear to have him in this room for another moment."
The man hurriedly complied, and Ser Torrhen turned to the ragged group below him once more.
"We've moved King Robb, Lady Catelyn, and any other survivors to Lord Walder's bedchambers; take some of my men and escort Lady Arya there at once - there may yet be Freys and Boltons lurking about on the lower floors."
Tom nodded, and once several Silver Eagles had joined their ranks, the group made for the door, a mob of steel-clad, bloodstained warriors with Arya Stark at their center.
"Not him." Torrhen called grimly as they turned to leave, gesturing to Sandor with his sword. "Not yet. Tommard, if you would?"
"With pleasure." Rivers replied from somewhere behind Sandor; exactly where, he could not tell with his helm donned. Swearing fiercely, he tried to draw his axe, but the throbbing pain in his shoulder slowed his reach, and the grip was slick with mud and gore. He had barely begun to turn when the bill's wooden handle crashed into the back of his helm, and the world went dark.
Sandor Clegane awoke with a scowl on his face, a distant, throbbing pain at the back of his head, and the whimpering of a boy in his ears. His eyes shot open, but dried mud and blood coated them, obscuring his vision and reducing the dank, gloomy room around him to a mess of blurry shapes and textures. He felt cold, wet stone at his back and beneath his legs, and realized with a start that his armor was gone, leaving him clad only in sweat-stained rags; his hand shot to his side out of instinct, only to find nothing there. He was naked, vulnerable. Sheer panic gripped him for half a moment, and he surged to his feet, his eyes wild and his heart racing. His head hit an unforgiving stone ceiling with a sickening crack, and pain tore through his skull like a lance, forcing him to his knees with a howl of agony and rage. Hot red blood welled from the point of impact, flowing steadily down the back of his neck as he gritted his teeth and forced his eyes open once more. This time, his surroundings came into focus quickly, and his location soon became apparent: a dungeon. All I did for them, and they put me in a fucking dungeon.
As he had so painfully discovered, the room was small and cramped to say the least; its vaulted stone ceiling, which was slick with water and algae, was so low that only a child around Joffrey's age could possibly have stood fully upright (or the Imp, Sandor mused with a shadow of a grin); lengthwise, it could have fit perhaps two men lying end to end, and two short men at that; its width was scarcely more than its height. The floor and walls were fashioned of the same stone; the only exit visible was an aging, rusted set of iron bars set in the wall to Sandor's left, behind which a flickering torch gave the room its only light. Through the wall opposite the door, he could hear the sound of rushing water, and with a sinking feeling he truly realized where he was. The Drowning Rooms were the infamous prison cells of House Frey, matched in reputation only by the Black Cells of the Red Keep. Located beneath the castles proper, they were cut deep into the banks of the Green Fork, with only a stone wall and a few feet of packed mud and clay separating them from the river itself.
They had earned their name honestly- nearly fifty years past, a knightly cadet branch of House Charlton, vassals to House Frey, had rebelled against Lord Walder and attempted to seize the Crossing, led by Ser Cedric Charlton, a charismatic man well-loved by the smallfolk. With more and more of their own peasants defecting to his cause every day, the Freys had nearly been beaten; it had taken a both all the troops Lord Walder could muster and a royal intervention force sent by Aegon V and led by Ser Duncan the Tall to finally bring Ser Cedric and his army down beneath the gates of the Twins. After razing the cadet branch's keep and all of the towns that had aided them, Lord Walder imprisoned Ser Cedric himself and several of his ranking officers in the newly constructed cells, on the pretense that they would be tried and executed soon after. That night, though, in the midst of a torrential downpour which swelled the Green Fork full to bursting, the walls of three of the eight cells had buckled and collapsed under the weight of the water, drowning nearly half of the prisoners, including Ser Cedric, and conveniently preventing him from being martyred at the noose or block. The three flooded cells remained so to this day; the smallfolk still held that they were haunted by the rebels' tortured spirits. House Frey, of course, had denied any involvement in the accident ever since, pointing the fact that three of their own guards had been killed as well, though no one had ever truly believed them.
As the torch outside the room waxed, casting a pale beam of amber light across the opposite end of the cell, Sandor realized with a start that he was not alone; two figures were huddled in adjacent corners, an aging man and a pimply youth. Both were dressed in the same rags as Sandor, and both looked as if they had seen the Stranger himself, shrunken against the wall, their eyes wide with fear. Freys, he knew. He had seen the man at enough of Robert's endless tourneys and feasts to recognize him by his bald head and wormlike beard as Ser Aenys; the lad he knew by his blemished face- Petyr Pimple. Gods, this is just fucking perfect. I bring them Arya Stark, and they lock me in a Drowning Room with an old man and a sniveling boy.
"Fucking cunts," he muttered, ignoring the echo and sitting back down sullenly. After a while, Petyr began to whimper again, clutching at the head of an arrow lodged in his leg; the shaft laid at his feet in a puddle of blood.
"Quiet, boy!" Aenys hissed, glancing hurriedly in Sandor's direction.
"One of the Mallisters stuck him." Aenys continued after another deafening silence. "He was trying to surrender, the bloody coward."
"There were three of them!" Petyr groaned, his wide, feverish eyes flitting between the two. What was I supposed to do?!"
"Fight!" The older knight snarled. "I brought down one of the bastards before another took me from behind. They got you in the same fashion, it looks like, Clegane."
When Sandor remained silent, Aenys began to slowly edge towards him, his every movement echoing throughout the chamber.
"Forgive me for asking, but how did you come to be here? Lord Tywin himself must have sent you to see the plan through, am I correct? I had always been suspicious of the rumors that you had deserted the royal family…"
"If you take one more step towards me," Sandor broke in as calmly as he could muster, "I'll snap your fucking neck. Got it, Frey?"
The silence that followed lasted through the night and into the morning (or, so he told himself), though Sandor never slept. He simply leaned back against the stone and listened to the Green Fork rush by, until finally, after what had to have been half a day, the iron bars swung open, and the Greatjon of Umber leaned through the doorway, his beard unkempt and a cloth bandage hastily wrapped around a wound on his battered face.
"You ," He grunted, gesturing towards Sandor, "with me. Now. The king wishes to have words with you, though I can't fathom why."
Ser Aenys rose as high as he was able and began to protest, but faltered when Lord Umber drew a bloodstained sword that looked like nothing more than a dagger in his massive, gloved hand, and placed its tip squarely on the knight's chest.
"Just the dog. Did I say anything about you, worm-chin? I've cut down five Freys with this blade since last night. You want to be number six?"
The old man closed his mouth and practically flung himself back into his corner of the cell, muttering either apologies or curses under his breath.
"Thought so." the Greatjon scoffed, spitting in Aenys' direction before turning once more to Sandor. "Alright, come on, then, get up. Unless you prefer to stay, which, mind you, I would be perfectly content with."
Robb Stark held his audience in the chambers of Walder Frey, lying in the lord's bed, surrounded by a swarm of maesters tending to his wounds and bannermen seeking counsel. His bare chest was crisscrossed with bloody bandages, and it didn't take a discerning eye to tell that death hung over him; whether or not it would claim him was any man's guess. Catelyn and Arya sat around a nearby table, conversing in hushed tones; when Sandor entered the room, flanked by Umber retainers and the Greatjon himself, both stood. The Widow of Winterfell regarded him as a mother bear would a hunter, wrapping her arms around her child as she met his gaze with blue eyes as cold as ice.
"I am told I have you to thank for returning my daughter to me." She said bluntly.
"Aye." He replied. "And I believe…" that you owe me a ransom, he wanted to say. But his eyes wandered to Arya's face, still dirty and covered in mud and blood, her eyes watching him with apprehension, fear, and anger swirling in their grey depths, and he faltered. That's what they want you to say. That's what they expect you to say. "…that it was an honor." He finished.
Catelyn Stark raised a thin red eyebrow, opening her mouth to reply and then closing it again. What she was planning to say, he would never know; the Greatjon prodded him towards the King's bedside before she could respond.
Sandor was met by yet another group before he reached his destination; the Lords Mallister and Bracken both stood vigil over their king, the former in full plate metal still stained with blood, with a hastily wrapped bandage about his head to match Lord Umber's. The two parted when he approached, but not without casting wary glances in his direction.
"Sandor Clegane," Robb Stark began in a voice barely above a whisper, "what am I to do with you?"
Am I supposed to answer that? He wondered, frowning. Thankfully, he was soon spared the uncertainty when the Young Wolf continued, the weakness of his voice forcing Sandor to lean forward to hear him; out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Jonos Bracken grasping the hilt of his sword.
"You'll still get your ransom, of course- I won't deprive you of that- but what afterward? Do I let you go? Risk you running back to Tywin Lannister and earning three times the gold I can give you in exchange for information? Or do I try and execute you for your crimes, send you to the gallows or the block with the Freys and their lot, ignore the service that you've done my family?"
"I'd trust you to do the honorable thing," Sandor replied coldly, "but having your men knock me flat and throw me in a Drowning Room really wasn't the honorable thing, was it?"
"Forgive me. I did not give the order, but it was a necessary precaution, even if it was executed more harshly than I would have liked. I assure you that my family and I feel nothing but gratitude towards you for bringing Arya back to us, but neither I nor my bannermen can overlook your past."
The King in the North sighed, closing his eyes and cradling his head in one hand.
"It seems I have quite a bit of considering to do yet. At midday, the Greatjon will deliver an address to my bannermen in the courtyard; I'll have given him my verdict regarding you by then. Until then, you're dismissed, Clegane; I'll have my men find you some more suitable quarters, though I can't give you free reign of the castle."
Sandor scowled, his eyes narrowing as two Umber guards moved to escort him out.
"Understood."
Midday arrived with the pealing of distant bells, and the rapping of a mailed fist on the wooden door of Sandor's new, temporary quarters, the only slightly less dank and cramped chambers of a late Frey servant. At least this one has a window, Sandor mused as he stood from the room's criminally undersized and uncomfortable bed and moved to open the door, passing by a plate of half-eaten mush and a cracked, half-empty flagon of stale beer. The rest of the morning had passed in a blur, somewhere between sleep and awareness; it seemed like mere minutes since the king's men had practically thrown him in here.
It was not Lord Umber who was waiting for him outside, however, but a Stark man clad in fur and steel from head to toe, the direwolf of his house emblazoned on his breastplate, flanked by two guards. He carried a brutish, spiked steel warhammer that reminded Sandor of Robert's, and there was something undeniably familiar about his war-weathered, black-bearded face.
"Have… we met?" He asked in passing as they began their trek down the narrow, dimly lit stone corridors of the Twins.
"Indeed we have, though I don't believe I properly introduced myself when you saved me from the Freys." He smiled, and extended a hand. "Borrick of the Wolfswood, captain of Winterfell's finest soldiers."
After a moment of forced silence, Borrick retracted his hand, donned his greathelm, and continued on their way, still smiling.
"Not one for pleasantries, I suppose. Come, then, it will be starting soon."
The Greatjon of Umber had already begun to speak by the time the small group arrived, his voice booming throughout the courtyard as he read from a long scroll. All of the great northern lords and their riverland allies had packed themselves into the modest square to hear Robb Stark's decree: Manderly and Glover, Hornwood and Locke, Cerwyn, Tully, Tallhart, Vance, Piper, Mormont, Mallister, Blackwood, Bracken, and half a hundred more that Sandor didn't recognize. The air was choked with bolts of cloth, and all of the men holding them would readily kill him, the mad dog of the Lannisters, without qualm or hesitation. Seven hells, what have I gotten myself into?
"…As penance for their vile betrayal and blatant disregard for the sacred and revered Guest Rite," he was saying, "House Frey and its members shall be stripped of all lands and titles, and forever banished from the Crossing. Until a new lord can formally be chosen following the conclusion of the war, Lord Jonos Bracken is hereby granted regency over the Twins and House Frey's former lands. Trials and executions for the traitors responsible for this heinous act will begin at midday tomorrow."
A thunderous cheer went up among the men; Borrick and the two guards joined in eagerly, though Sandor remained quiet as the grave among the fanfare; there was only one thing he was listening for.
"The same shall apply for the Houses of Vypren and Bolton along their members, who collaborated with the Freys in their treasonous, heretical plot, as well as the vassals of House Frey, the Houses of Haigh, Charlton, Erenford, and Nayland. Regency over the lands of House Vypren is hereby granted to Lord Jason Mallister, while that over the lands of House Frey's vassals is also granted to Lord Bracken. While we hold captive the lords and knights of Houses Charlton, Erenford, Vypren, and Nayland, Roose Bolton has escaped us, along with several of his men, as well as Ser Donnel Haigh. They are hereby branded outlaws, with a bounty to be placed for their capture and return, alive, that they may be brought back to face the king's justice. We urge all northern lords present to write their castellans and instruct them to muster their reserves, that an army may be raised to seize the Dreadfort before Lord Bolton can flee there and raise forces of his own; the same goes for the riverlords regarding Ser Donnel Haigh."
There was no cheering this time, but a wave of uncertain murmuring; several lords dismissed men to the rookery, even as Lord Umber continued to speak.
"Now, on to less grim matters. As a reward for his most timely invention, without which I imagine most of us would not still be here, King Robb has granted Lord Jason Mallister the title of Lord Deputy. Lord Jason, step forth."
The Mallisters in the crowd let out a ragged cheer as the soldiers and nobles parted to allow their lord passage. Garbed in the finery of his house, he made quite the sight, a purple cloak billowing from his shoulders and the sun gleaming from his silver steel plates; the white cloth bandage was still wrapped around his head, over a mane of long brown hair. A show, all of it, Sandor thought, scowling. He had seen enough paegentry for a dozen lifetimes in King's Landing. Useless posturing. Lord Jason took a knee beneath the giant of a man in front of him, gazing upwards as the Greatjon drew the longest, rustiest greatsword that Sandor had ever seen from a sheath on his back, and laid its tip on the other lord's shoulder.
"Jason Mallister, Lord of Seagard, do you hereby swear to aid in the protection and governance of the Kingdom in the North and to defend it and its people with your life, until death or dishonor parts you from your duty?"
"I do."
"Do you swear to rule the kindgom wisely and justly in your liege's stead if he is unable to do so himself?"
"I do."
"Then in the name of the Robb Stark, first of his name, King in the North and the Trident, I grant you his authority, and the title of Lord Deputy. Rise. And I am told that you have something of your own to say."
Sandor's scowl deepened as the crowd burst into applause and cheers. They're just too afraid to call him the King's Hand.
"Indeed I do. I have ascended to this position in a time of crisis." Jason began, pacing back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. "Betrayed by our own bannermen, we nearly lost everything, and we did lose many of our own holding on to it. We nearly lost not just our lives, not just our King, not just the war, but each other. The Freys, Boltons, and ultimately the Lannisters did not only mean to wipe out the royal family, they meant to divide us, to cut the head from our new kingdom and watch the body suffer and die. Leaderless, who can say what would have befallen us. But they failed, and our king still lives! Men of the North, men of the Riverlands, are we not still united?"
"Aye!" The courtyard cried.
"You'll have to speak a little louder; I don't think the Freys can hear you from their dungeons!"
"Aye!"
"I don't think the Lannisters can hear you from Casterly Rock!"
"AYE!"
"I don't think Joffrey can hear you from his iron chair!"
"AYE!" The men boomed, slamming the butts of their spears into the cobblestones, their faces red and their voices hoarse. Lord Mallister continued once they had quieted, his face grim.
"Still, though, these recent events have forced us to examine our situation. On all sides our enemies surround us, ever watching, waiting for us to slip, for an opportunity like the one they nearly had last night. From the north, the Ironborn, from the south and west, the Lannisters and their ilk, and now from within our own ranks, traitors. We have sent an envoy to the crannogmen, that we may take Moat Cailin and drive the Ironmen and Boltons from the North, but we as of now we have heard nothing. Until such time as they reply, we must consider the Neck closed to us, and turn our attention back to the enemies that we can face. As such, a council between King Robb and his lords bannermen has decided that in order to avail ourselves of our current predicament, a bolder approach to the war must be taken. Before they can regroup, before they expect us to be able to do the same, we must lash out at our enemies with our full might, doing unto them what they did unto us. We will snatch their very homelands out from under them, and show them how it feels to lose what they love!"
The king's men cheered until they lost their voices at that, and by then Sandor had nearly lost his patience. Finish your bloody speech, pretty man, and tell me whether I'm going to live or die.
"Lord Tytos Blackwood will lead the greater part of our foot and cavalry in an assault on the Westerlands with Casterly Rock as the ultimate goal, while I myself sail our combined navies to Pyke, and smash the Ironborn at anchor. The Lords Piper, Vance, and Bracken will arrange their forces and those of their vassals to form a defensive line running from Pinkmaiden to Saltpans. They will man any castles and holdfasts they can, and even build new wooden encampments if need be, and prevent the Lannisters from sending reinforcements to the Rock at all costs, by any means at their disposal. Lastly, though a sizable garrison will remain here at the Crossing with the King while he recovers, the remainder of our forces will escort Lady Catleyn, Lord Edmure, and Lady Arya east, into the Mountains of the Moon. For too long, Lysa Arryn has sat idle in the seat of her husband, committing men to neither side despite the wishes of her lords bannermen. Her sister and brother will attempt one final time to sway her to cause, and failing in that, will at the very least depart with some of her vassals marching alongside them. If they succeed, though, with the men of the Vale behind us, we would have enough might to challenge King's Landing itself, if Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell prove arrogant enough to meet us on the field of battle. Each of these expeditions will set out at dawn tomorrow; there is no time to delay. We must needs make a stand now, and rise in defense of our kingdom before it is too late."
Once again, the courtyard erupted into a cacophony of murmuring, muffled shouts of approval, and metal boots clacking against the cobblestones. Jason waited patiently this time, allowing the lords and knights to send messengers from the courtyard and talk amongst themselves, before finally raising his mailed hand and continuing.
"Before my men and I rode for the Twins, after we learned of the Freys' treachery, I made a promise to two men, without whom my intervention would not have been possible, and seven hells take me now if I go back on my word. Lyonel, Willem, step forward."
The crowd parted, this time not to admit a great lord in all his finery, but a barrel-chested soldier in a bloodstained surcoat, and a young, pale-faced boy who visibly trembled with anxiety; it took a moment for Sandor to recognize the former as the crossbowman he had fought beside the night before. Both knelt before their liege lord as he drew his sword, laid it on each of their shoulders in turn, and spoke the words.
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just…"
Bloody hell. It was all Sandor could muster not to gag; by the time the impromptu ceremony was done, he was ready to take his ears out with a dagger. He glanced to Borrick and the blade at the Stark captain's hip, and was contemplating the benefits of being deaf when his name rang out across the courtyard.
"Sandor Clegane," Lord Mallister called, his tone ominous, "step forward."
Sandor shook off Borrick's grip when the northman tried to escort him, shoving past his guards and trodding sullenly forward through the mass of knights and lords. Hatred and malice burned in the eyes of the men around them- spit landed at his feet more than once, and curses rose up intermittently from among their ranks. In any case, he kept his chin high and his eyes forward until he reached Jason Mallister and looked down on him, meeting the riverlord's cold stare with an even colder one.
"Though most of his lords bannermen, myself included, thought it more prudent to take off your head," he continued, unphased, "King Robb has elected to show you mercy, dog. He has given you a choice: Take the Black and be escorted to the Wall as soon as Moat Cailin is conquered, or swear your sword and shield to Arya Stark, and leave this castle as her protector, to escort her on the expedition to the Vale. You have until nightfall to decide."
The northern convoy was large, their baggage train long. A hundred hardy Stark and Umber troops took up the vanguard, led by Borrick of the Wolfswood- mounted on a black, armored destrier with his warhammer in hand, Sandor could have sworn that the captain was Robert reborn, had it not been for the direwolves emblazoned on his shield and plates, and the Stark standard-bearer riding alongside him. Edmure Tully rode proud at the head of the main part of the host, with trout banners flying high all around him, and the Blackfish, who had ridden to the Twins from Riverrun during the night, at his side. Catelyn and Arya, along with her new sworn shield, were at the very center, surrounded on all sides by two hundred men from the Riverlands, ranging from Tully spearmen to Mallister Silver Eagles to Bracken cavalry. At least twenty knights rode with them, though nearly half of them were at the far flanks of the host, leading parties of mounted scouts and outriders that would be vital when they entered the Mountains of the Moon, infested as they were with mountain clans emboldened by Lysa Arryn's inaction and the havoc wreaked by the war.
The lofty peaks of the Vale were yet far off, though. For now, the column trekked through the blasted ruins of the Riverlands; the wetland areas east of the Twins had been swelled to the point of bursting by the torrential rains that had inundated the area, turning a cluster of tranquil ponds into a bloated swamp, filled with rotting corpses and the forlorn, half-submerged ruins of wooden trebuchets, rams, and baggage carts, the half-vanished ghosts of the Westerlands armies that had ventured this far north. Much of the eastern road had been submerged in brown and red, and for several hours at a time they lost it completely, and were forced to slog through filthy, corpse-ridden water while their outriders searched for the main path. Lord Edmure tried in vain to convince Lady Catelyn and Arya to wait on land until a drier route was found, but the two would not be swayed, and rode on through the mire, doing their best to ignore the death and despair that surrounded them.
At midday, the convoy came upon the first signs of life that they had encountered since entering the bog, when a group of scouts happened upon Heron Hall. House Erenford's modest stone keep, once located on the shore of a lake, was halfway flooded, with the water rising well up its gates and walls. Ser Erryk Erenford, the castellan, was camped atop the parapets along with the remainder of his men and the castle's smallfolk, having fled the main halls after the lake came rushing in. He surrendered without a fight when Edmure sent a mounted envoy carrying the king's banner, and readily offered to bend the knee once he was informed that he has now the Knight of Heron Hall; his cousin, the previous bearer of that title, had been slain by the Mallisters at the Twins. Once a rider calling for thirty men to aid Ser Erryk and his people had been sent back to the Crossing, though, the host continued on their way, still making due east.
Much to the relief of all, however, they soon found the end of the flooded marsh, emerging onto a vast, flat plain that ran all the way to the Mountains of the Moon. Somewhere in its eastern reaches was the border between the Riverlands and the Vale, though few besides the maesters knew exactly where it was, and even fewer cared to mark or enforce it. During the summer the plain was lush and verdant, a boundless expanse of green, but autumn had turned the long grass yellow, lifeless and brittle, though yet all but untouched by war. Smoke was visible in the distance, a long, twisting grey column that stretched far into the sky, with a faint red glow at its base. Most of the outriders and even Sandor himself dismissed it as a brush fire, but as it was in their path, however far off, Lord Edmure deigned to investigate, and quickened their pace; there were several lesser keeps on the roads ahead, and like as not one could shelter them for the night. As they approached the blaze, passing from wild, untamed grass to neatly organized, fenced fields of wheat, barley, and rye, it became apparent that this was no mere brush fire, though. By the time they reached the source of the blaze, the sun was low on the horizon behind them, the men were growing fatigued, and the fire's purpose was all too clear. A host of Riverlands levies laid before them, encircling a stout stone keep flying the pitchfork of House Haigh. They had burned the crops and town surrounding the castle, and now looked to be preparing for a siege. Lord Edmure soon organized a party to ride out and meet the force's leaders: he himself along with the Blackfish, Catelyn, Arya, Sandor, and an assortment of other knights and captains. Borrick, meanwhile, would lead the rest of the convoy to aid in the encirclement until further notice. The group was met halfway by two knights on horseback, flanked by men-at-arms on foot.
"Hail, friends!" Lord Tully called, raising a gloved hand in greeting. "Who goes there?"
"Ser Addam of House Blanetree."
"And Ser Perym of House Wayn," the knights replied in turn, extending their greetings.
"The ravens from the Twins came in this morning," Ser Addam continued, "about what the Freys and their lot tried to do at your wedding, the bloody traitors, and about Roose Bolton and Donnel Haigh. Now, we couldn't do anything about Bolton, of course, but seeing as both of our keeps were just half a day's march away from the Haighs…"
"We raised our peasants and what few soldiers we had left and came here as quick as we could," Ser Perym interjected, "but it wasn't quick enough. Ser Donnel got in before we arrived, but we have him trapped now. When he first realized what we were doing he tried to lead a sortie against us, nearly broke through our lines, but we pushed him back inside. I tried to lead an envoy to negotiate his surrender an hour later, but the man is mad- he opened fire on us after things went south, took out two of my best men with his longbows and stuck me in the bloody shoulder as I rode away. We set his lands on fire after that, and began setting up for a siege. He won't negotiate, I tell you."
"Leave that to me," said Brynden Tully, smirking.
The drawbridge before the castle was red with the blood of the two dead Wayn men, who both lied still in the bridge's center, pierced by arrows, along with one of their horses. All the same, Ser Brynden Tully rode out alone, despite the pleadings of Catelyn, Edmure, Arya and Sers Addam and Perym, all of whom insisted that the Haighs would feather him without a second thought; as stubborn as ever, though, the Blackfish could be swayed by no man once he set his mind to something.
"He's going to die," Arya hissed to Sandor from her smaller palfrey, her eyebrows knitted, as they along with everyone else in the host watched her great-uncle trot slowly towards the castle, "they're going to shoot him, aren't they?"
"Might be," Sandor murmured, "if they're fool enough. They kill that man, and your uncle will storm this castle, burn it to the ground, erase House Haigh from history. Not as thoroughly as Tywin Lannister would, mind you, but all the same, they'd be ruined."
"Who goes there?" A voice called from the parapets, drawing their attention.
"You know who I am, Donnel," the Blackfish replied, "and I know you. I knew your grandfather, Lyman, since long before even your father Leslyn was born, let alone you. We fought together against the Ninepenny Kings, then years later against Aerys." Brynden spat on the bridge's bloodstained planks. "He would turn in his grave if he could see how low his children had sunk. You betrayed your liege lord, and abetted a conspiracy with the Lannisters to murder him and his mother, guests under your masters the Freys."
"Lord Tywin has money and power beyond anything you can imagine, old man!" Donnel called back. "And he helps his friends! His host will smash your ragtag band of northmen like so many ants! The Mountain will cut your heart out and ride over your corpse!"
Brynden shrugged, gesturing to the empty plains around them. "I, for one, see no Mountain, and I certainly don't see Tywin Lannister. I see only a coward who betrayed his king."
"He was losing the war!" The knight returned. "He freed the Kingslayer, and broke his vow to marry one of Lord Frey's daughters!"
"And that gives you leave to conspire to murder him at a wedding? Enough of your excuses. Know this: If you surrender now, we will spare your castle, and return you to the Crossing for a fair trial. Refuse, and we will storm your walls, smash your gates, burn your keep, and hang your traitor's corpse atop the ashes. The choice is yours."
Ser Donnel laughed coldly. "So, I have the choice to either hang here or hang there? I think not, old man. Single combat, I say. You and I. I win, and you break off the siege."
"I win," Brynden finished, "and the castle is ours. Very well, Ser Donnel. I'll be waiting."
It was over for Donnel Haigh in less than a minute. Dressed in the finest plates that he could muster from the keep's armory and bearing a long, polished steel blade, he certainly looked the part, but he was no match for the Blackfish. Clearly underestimating the older man's speed, he attempted to flank him, but was met step for step and swing for swing at every turn. Brynden went for the joints at his knees and shoulders, making cut after brutal cut. Blood flowed down Donnel's plates from armpit and knee and elbow, and his wild swings quickly slowed as he began to pant and falter. Soon his guard slipped just long enough to allow the Blackfish to send his sword flying from his hands- it landed in the moat with a clatter, bouncing off one of the dozens of half-submerged wooden spikes that filled the deep ditch and slipping beneath the murky water. The subsequent swing landed Brynden's blade in his side; when the Blackfish withdrew it, half of it was red.
"I yield." Ser Donnel gasped, falling to his knees before one of the dead Wayns.
"I don't think so." Ser Brynden replied coldly. He grabbed hold of the knight's helm by the visor and drew back his sword.
Behind him, Sandor heard Catelyn and Edmure breathing sighs of relief; Sandor was turning to remark on their uncle's prowess when Donnel Haigh grabbed one of the arrows buried in the Wayn's corpse, turned it in his hand, and launched himself forward with the last of his strength, burying the steel head in Brynden's hip joint, driving his helm into the man's chest, and sending them both over the edge of the bridge.
Catelyn Stark screamed, the longbowmen on the castle's parapets fired, and all hell broke loose.
