What better way to make up for over a year of being AWOL than with the longest chapter of this story yet? I hope you all enjoy, I've been looking forward to writing this one for a very long time.

SANDOR

They were two days into the Mountains of the Moon when the first attack came. The bulk of their forces did their best to stay as close together as they could manage on the narrow, winding path, but with a baggage train, camp followers, and no guides who truly knew the land among their number, Sandor knew that it would only be a matter of time. Two hundred additional troops, offered to them as a gift by the Manderlys, Hornwoods, and Lockes at Whitehill before their main force marched south, brought their total number up to eight hundred, but even such an imposing size didn't completely reassure him, as thinly spread as their soldiers were forced to be by the narrowness of the mountain paths. Dozens of mounted scouts rode on all sides of the expedition and kept watch over their encampment each night, but they could only range so far into the rugged hills before the land became too treacherous for horses, and the slopes too steep for foot soldiers. While Edmure worried over reports of strange noises in the twilight and shadowed movements on the ridgelines to either side of them, Sandor sharpened his new blade day and night, grinding down the whetstone with Arya Stark never far from his side.

Lady Catelyn's eyes still glowed with barely repressed rage whenever she saw the two of them together, and she was still eager to find more ways to punish him for his drunken gallivanting in Whitehill, but her fury had been tempered by time and her brother's words, and she had even begun to allow him to take his meals and lodgings with the knights and officers, rather than relegating him to the rank and file; he would have declined the offer, though, if the food hadn't been leagues better. He was at a table with the three unlucky souls with whom he shared a tent by lot, a Ryger knight, a Mallister lieutenant, and an Umber captain, none of whose names he had bothered to learn, savoring every bite of a leg of roast goat after two days of stale bread and gruel, when the first horns sounded at the edge of camp. The Umber was the first to rise, his hand on his sword hilt; after exchanging a brief glance with the Mallister, the two rushed out the tent's flap, the Ryger in tow close behind them. Sandor, on the other hand, remained planted in his seat, prying the last bits of meat and tendon from the bone with his teeth before cracking it open to suck out the marrow.

Probably just a few nervous twats running from their own shadows again, he mused as muffled shouts and the clanking of metal armor drifted in from outside. The nagging sense of anticipation at the back of his skull had been a dulled by a false alarm just yesterday, when a scout mistook a group of roving merchants and their mercenary escort for tribesmen. When he was finally satisfied with his meal, he stretched and rose, swaying, giving an exasperated sigh before shuffling to the corner of the tent to fetch his greatsword and helm and gauntlet from the meager pile of linens and supplies that now constituted everything he had. He was still fairly deep in his cups after tying Daryn of Gods Eye and Borrick of the Wolfswood in a drinking game earlier that night, and it was with his greatsword slung haphazardly over his shoulder and his helm half-askew that he strode out after the others.

Any suspicion of a false alarm was dashed, though, the moment Sandor left the tent. The hillside directly opposite the tent's flap was illuminated by a dozen pinpricks of flickering light, each one a torch. Visible in the orange glow even from a hundred yards away were at least a hundred mountain clansmen, charging wildly down the rocky slope with ragged battle cries on their lips; more poured over the top of the ridge with each passing second. A few dozen yards in front of Sandor, across the rows of tents, a hastily assembled line of northern and riverland troops was forming at the base of the slope, as mounted knights rode up and down the ranks shouting orders and encouragement. A second line of Tully archers behind the spearmen began nocking arrows, but at the crest of the hill, outlined against the moonlit sky, Sandor could make out a line of hurlers letting loose their slings. A dull whoosh filled the air, followed shortly by a series of sharp, sickening cracks as the slingers' stones impacted muscle and bone and thin leather with devastating effect. The archers barely had time to fire a dozen arrows before a quarter of their ranks fell dead or screaming to the ground, blood spilling onto the dry brown grass of the narrow valley floor. He swiftly sobered at the sight, straightening his helm and charging forward through the rows of tents to join the line alongside dozens of soldiers and knights still emerging from their tents.

No more than twenty paces from the massing defensive formation, though, Sandor caught a glimpse of Arya Stark out of the corner of his eye, though thanks to the narrow vision afforded by his bulky helm, he lost sight of her half a heartbeat later. Freezing in his tracks, he stepped out of the camp's main thoroughfare in the direction he'd seen her, and barked out her name. His heart pounded faster with each moment that he was met with silence in response, as he began to pace about the rows of empty tents in vain, peering into each flap. She should be with her mother at the center of the camp. Seven hells, why can't she just learn to stay put? He was almost at his wits' end when he finally saw her, standing alone in the back of an empty wayn, watching the battle rage before her with Needle at her side and an inscrutable impression on her face, something between fascination, fear, and anger.

"Arya!"

In one lunging motion, he wrapped his gauntleted hands around her thin frame and lifted her down to the ground, meeting her eyes through his visor. "What do you think you're doing, girl? You're not allowed to get yourself killed, you hear me? Not as long as that means your mother killing me too!"

She glared up at him defiantly, and was opening her mouth to say something when a nearby scream followed by clashing steel and pounding hooves announced that several riders and half a dozen warriors had broken through a weak spot in the Tully defenses just ten yards away, and were in the process of butchering the wounded and fallen while the rest of the line rushed to close the gap. Holding Arya close at his side, Sandor tried to duck back behind the wayn, but it was too late- one of the warriors caught sight of them, and the man's mouth twisted into a demented grin. He advanced slowly at first, the freshly cut scalp in his free hand tracing his path with drops of blood as the Hound ushered Arya behind him and unslung his greatsword. Dressed in padded furs matted with dirt and gore, the clansman was covered from head to toe in elaborate whorls and patterns of pigment anywhere his skin was exposed, cyan and red and gold. One of the Painted Dogs, eh? I'll show you what a real dog looks like.

Sandor struck first, swinging for the warrior's bare chest, but the clansman sidestepped the blade and aimed a savage blow at his chest, which the Hound parried in turn. The warrior wasn't so lucky when Sandor swung again, though; the greatsword's castle-forged steel cleaved the dull, rusted iron blade of the clansman's axe in two, then bit deep into his shoulder, tearing through fur and sinew and bone. With his last gasp of strength the man let out a fierce bellow and attempted to draw a flint dagger from his belt, but a swift elbow to the face sent him toppling silent and motionless to the ground. Two other warriors had noticed the noise, though, and were approaching him from either side as all around them the battle raged ever fiercer. Surging toward the nearer of the two, Sandor bashed aside the man's sword with his vambrace and swung low, severing the clansman's left leg at the knee in one swift motion. He was turning to deal with the second over the first's howls of agony when a slinger's pointed stone slammed into his gut and drove him to his knees, gasping for air as his eyes drifted down to a massive dent in his armor.

Thankfully, his thick plates and the gambeson beneath had spared him the brunt of the damage, but it was all the time the second clansman needed to sprint forward and drive him onto his back with a series of savage strikes from a crude mace. His greatsword knocked from his grasp, he opted for the simple yet effective tactic of kicking at the man's ankles with a heavy steel boot, and moments later the two were rolling across the bloodied ground, each reaching for the other's neck. Once Sandor managed to pin the clansman to the ground, though, his steel-shod fists quickly reduced the warrior's face to a bloody pulp. His armor more crimson than grey by now, he looked up to where he had left Arya, panting. No longer the defiant little wolf, she had for a moment become a young girl again, her eyes wide with fear and her knuckles white about her Needle's hilt. Grabbing his sword with one hand, he threw her over his shoulder with the other, and began to make his way to the center of the camp, where her mother would be waiting.

All around the two, the sights and sounds of a camp in chaos seemed all too familiar. Several of Torrhen's Silver Eagles, half of whom had been sent east with Edmure, rode along the lines firing crossbows into the enemy ranks. This isn't like the tribes, he thought as he surveyed the chaos.They rob merchants and kidnap nobles stupid enough to travel without an escort. They don't wage open war. Guess all that time with the Imp really did change them. As they drew farther away from the raging battle, they passed a large, open pavilion full of camp followers, cooks and traders and whores, the squires too young to go into battle, all huddled together on their knees as a septon stood before the crowd and prayed for deliverance with upturned palms.

"And may the Warrior guide our soldiers' hands in battle. And may the Father deliver us a just victory tonight, for our cause is righteous…"

"ARYA!"

Sandor breathed a sigh of relief through the snarling mouth of his helm, and set Arya down on her feet again; the mother wolf had sought out her pup. A trio of guards trailing behind her, Catelyn dashed toward her daughter and dropped to her knees once she reached her, wrapping her arms around the thin girl's back. Tears were visible streaming down both of their cheeks as they embraced.

"How could you run off like that, now of all times? If anything had happened to you…" Her eyes drifted up to Sandor, and for a moment they seemed to be wavering between anger and gratitude. "Thank you… thank you for protecting her." They finally settled on the latter, and as she wiped her tears away and rose back to her feet, a weak smile played on her lips. "Perhaps we should look into getting my daughter's sworn shield a tent closer to her own again."

Before he could reply, though, one of Catelyn's guards called out to her.

"My lady, now that we have the princess, we must needs to get you back to the command tent where it's safest!"

"He's right, go." Sandor lanced back towards the fray. "I can do the most good as her shield where the fighting's thickest. I'll make sure the fuckers don't get to you."

"My brother is assembling a unit of cavalry to flank the enemy," she called back as they turned to leave. "Join him if you can! He needs every able rider he can get his hands on!"

A grin on his face, he nodded and set off in the direction of the stables. This should be fun. Gods know been too long since I last rode into a proper battle.

Stranger's breath billowed out in a white cloud beneath the bannerman's torchlight, his muscles taught and his eyes full of fury as he bore Sandor into the darkness of the ravine. They were near the front rank of the company of cavalry, with only Edmure and Torrhen Mallister riding ahead of them, and as they climbed the shallow slope of the hillside and began their arcing crescent toward the rear of the clansmen's ranks, he slid a heavy falchion from a sheath at his hip, a souvenir from their siege of the Haigh keep.

The mass of horsemen, perhaps only thirty or forty in total, was formed into a loose wedge that grew even more scattered as their mounts clambered up the rocky slope, but they quickly reformed at the summit, and broke into a full gallop. A hundred yards ahead, the enemy's slingers only had a moment to hurl stones in their defense before the mass of horses broke upon them like a roaring wave- Sandor swung his falchion hard and low, felt it strike flesh with a reverberating crack, and drew it back up to arm level with bits of skull and brain clinging to the crimson blade. Easily three more men were trampled under Stranger's hooves as the cavalry carved a bloody path back down the hill, toward the mass of clashing infantry.

By the time their charge finally slammed into the back of the Painted Dogs' ranks, most of the clansmen were already wavering in the face of the increasingly organised resistance to their attack; they broke and began to run within a minute. Easy prey, Sandor mused as he ran down man after man, hacking at shoulders and limbs and heads until most of his lower arm and both of Stranger's front hooves were coated in blood and gore. Torrhen's Silver Eagles made even quicker work of the routing warriors, their ornate crossbows thrumming mercilessly over the sound of screams and clashing steel as dozens of clansmen fell with quarrels buried in their backs.

"That wasn't so bad after all," Edmure panted through his helm, once they'd come to a stop, twisting about on his courser a few paces to Sandor's right. Crimson dots were speckled across his trout-emblazoned armor, and his sword arm was trembling slightly, but the riverlord forced a shaky grin through the shimmering film of sweat on his face. "I expected worse. How did you fare, Clegane?"

"Well enough," Sandor grunted, dismounting once the area was clear of clansmen and wiping fragments of bone and sinew from his blade with a worn strip of leather. "But I'll tell you one thing, Tully. You need better fucking scouts."

From that night on, the convoy's unit of outriders was doubled in number, and selected from entirely different regiments than it had been before, led by skilled veterans. Sandor himself took part in several of the excursions, though he was still in camp more often than not, at his Little Wolf's side. They spent the right of that night and much of the next day in a hard march toward the Vale, only stopping in the afternoon, when a hard rain began to wash over the mountains and forced them to pitch their tents once again. The storm brought a bitter chill with it; Sandor lines his plates and gloves with fur at the first opportunity, 'borrowed' from the northerners' stores. When the rain died down an hour later and milky fog rolled down the crags and slopes in its place, Sandor was still near the quartermaster's tent, sharpening his greatsword on a whetstone beneath a hastily erected swath of canvas while Daryn restrung his longbow nearby. The hedge knight was prattling on about a beautiful, buxom whore he'd met among their camp followers, and Sandor was half-listening, a hint of a grin on his face.

"Alright, alright, I'll think about going by after I'm done with this. Gods know I have enough gold now." He chuckled and shook his head. "You think they still have any of that roast chicken left over in the knights' mess tent? Fucking always makes me hungry."

"Are you done here?"

All talk of women and chicken forgotten, they both nearly jumped out of their skin when Arya Stark appeared between them, seemingly out of thin air.

"Seven hells, girl," Sandor growled, picking the whetstone off the ground where he'd dropped it. "Where did you come from?"

"I was sneaking, you dunce," she retorted, screwing up her face and sticking her tongue out. "It's not my fault you didn't see me coming. I have to learn how to sneak if I'm ever going to be like Jaqen and join the Faceless Men."

"Well why don't you go and sneak somewhere else," he muttered, strapping the greatsword to his back and turning to the hedge knight. "Ser Daryn has something important he wants me to see."

"There's no time for whores," she quipped back, her arms crossed. "I was sneaking around near my uncle Edmure's tent earlier, and I heard that the scouts found the Bloody Gate just half a day's march ahead. We're breaking camp within the hour."

"Oh, is that so?"

Sure enough, within moments a Tully officer rode by the tent and on through the rest of the camp, shouting the same announcement.

"Damn," Sandor grunted, cracking a hint of a grin at the sight of Daryn's crestfallen face. Well, Gods Eye, best double time it if you want to break down our tent in time."

Daryn grumbled out a few protests, but all the same, he quickly slung his bow over his back and set off toward their quarters, where his horse was tied up beside Stranger- this camp was only a temporary one erected while the weather passed, so setting up a full stable had been deemed unnecessary, and he'd been allowed to lodge with whomever he pleased. Sandor was about to set off after him, but Arya's small hand tugged one of the straps on his armor, urging him to stay.

"There's no time for whores, but there is time enough for sparring. I want you to teach me to fight."

He cocked an eyebrow, and stifled a laugh at the sight of her glowering eyes- she was trying her best to be deadly serious, but he could hardly see it as anything but humorous.

"I'm supposing this isn't your mother's idea?"

"No," She muttered, dropping her eyes to the ground. "She wouldn't understand. She's so scared of the mountain tribes that she wants me to stay in the tent. I'm supposed to be there right now, that's why I'm sneaking around. But why should I just have to hide if they attack again? I want to be able to fight them like you did."

"You have to hide because they're three times as big as you and ten times as strong," Sandor replied, poking at the nonexistent biceps on her slender arms. "It's not just as simple as learning swordplay. You have to train your body, too, or anyone can overpower you no matter how many fancy tricks you know."

"Water dancing's not about strength," She snapped back. "It's all about speed and agility. Syrio Forel could kill a man three times his size without blinking."

"Do I look like a bloody water dancer to you?" He retorted, unslinging his greatsword and holding it out in front of her. "Does this look like the little twig of a rapier that Forel fought with? I can teach you what I know, but I can't teach you how to twirl around like a fucking bravo. You want to learn from me, you're gonna learn my way, and that's that."

Disappointment flashed across her face for a moment, but then she set her mouth in a hard line, and resolve filled her eyes.

"Fine, whatever. As long as I know how to fight at the end. Can I still use Needle?"

His eyes roved over the blade. It was well-made, to be sure, but in his beefy hands it would be more the size of a meat skewer than a real weapon.

"It's not made for slashing, but aye, you can keep it for now, until you're strong enough to hold a real blade. I suppose now's as good a time as any to get started on that. Come on, leave your little sword here and follow me. You're going to learn how to lift rocks."

"What? Litfting rocks?!" She cried indignantly, shock plain on her face. "Are you japing?"

"I am most certainly not," he countered, starting off toward an outcropping of stone visible through the fog at the edge of camp. "If we sparred right now, you wouldn't stand a chance in seven hells, even if I blindfolded myself and tied one arm behind my back. It would end with you covered in bruises and me being castrated by your mother. So no, we're not sparring. You're going to have to earn that right once you're strong enough. And you're gonna get strong the way every peasant boy with half a brain does, by lifting goddamn rocks. Unless you'd rather work your arse off on a farm for a few years, of course."

She ran out of clever responses at that, left Needle with the rest of Sandor's things, and set off dutifully behind him.

By the end of the next hour, he had avoided covering her in bruises, but not by a wide margin. Her fingers were scraped and bloody, her nails chipped and cracked. Her dark hair was slick with sweat, and her clothes were covered with a patchwork of mud and grass stains. The look of proud defiance she wore on her face as she lifted her final stone, though, told him that this had been the right choice after all.

"Atta girl, keep it up for a few more seconds. Just pretend you're about to toss it onto Joffrey's cuntish little face."

"But that makes me want to drop it!" She protested, buckling slightly at the knees, her teeth grit in a hard line. The rock she was holding was no more than the size of a tabby, but it was the largest one she'd lifted yet- the girl was already showing the potential for rapid progress. After a few more moments of watching her struggle with it, he finally relented, and waved his hand.

"All right, all right, set it down, nice and easy now. Don't want you to sprain something- that's enough for today."

After a moment to let her recover, they started back to camp, which was mostly nonexistent by now- Daryn was the first familiar face they saw, riding up to greet them.

"You two took your damn time! I tried to untie that beast of a horse of yours, but he almost kicked my head in- he's still tied up over there!" He gestured in the direction of their tent, and was about to trot off toward the massing troops when he remembered something and turned back. "Oh, and the Starks were looking for Lady Arya! I told Borrick that she was with you, but they'll probably want her back with them before we leave."

Sandor nodded and continued on towards Stranger; as they neared the post, he was about to say something about getting the wolf pup back to her mother, but then he looked her over again, and thought better of it.

"Alright, I don't want to lose my balls today, so we're doing this like old times."

Before she could reply, he grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her onto the black stallion's saddle, then clambered on himself and put heel to the stirrups. She protested at first, beating his armored back with her tiny fists, but quickly gave up and started laughing instead, throwing both arms in the air as they maneuvered around the marshaling soldiers, soared out ahead of the convoy's vanguard, and plunged into the misty gorges of the pass ahead, quickly catching up to a company of Mallister and Manderly scouts. They greeted the Hound and princess with shouts of greeting, and together they burst through the veil of fog and into the bright afternoon sunlight, Arya laughter echoing through the canyons. Catelyn's still going to kill me, he knew, but for now, he didn't care.

The clear skies didn't last for long, though. A new bank of clouds had rolled in over the mountains by the time they were within sight of the gate, even more dark and ominous than the last, and although the fog had dissipated, a cold wind was whistling through the gorges; soon, every cape, cloak, and banner in the convoy was flapping and twisting with each gust. Once all of their troops had reached the fortification in an orderly formation, Edmure, Torrhen, and Catelyn rode out ahead to hail the Knight of the Gate, the post held until recently by the Blackfish; Brynden had been looking forward to seeing his old post again, and told his niece and nephew that missing it would be his sole regret upon being left behind with the Wayns to recover.

It immediately became apparent that something was wrong, though, when Ser Donnel Waynwood, the current Knight of the Gate, failed to appear on the ramparts; in his stead, two soldiers bearing Arryn colors stepped forward to the edge of the walls, and conversed with the three representatives for several long minutes. Sandor couldn't tell what they were saying on account of the distance, but he heard shouts that sounded anything but joyful, and when the group finally rode back to the main host, the gate remained closed. Arya could tell that something was amiss as well, leaping off his saddle and striding over to her mother as soon as she'd brought her horse to a halt.

"Why haven't they opened the gates for us? Is something wrong with Aunt Lysa?"

"And where is Ser Donnel?" Borrick added, drawing similar cries of concern from the other northern officers present.

Catelyn exchanged a glance with her brother, who simply shook his head, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and anger.

"My sister, Lysa Arryn, is dead," She finally said after a long moment of silence, her voice faint, as if she could scarcely believe what she was saying. The officers and knights cried out in dismay almost in unison, and even Sandor felt his jaw slacken in surprise, but Torrhen silenced them with a wave of his hand, allowing Catelyn to continue. "Ser Donnel has been recalled from his post by the order of the Lord Protector of the Vale… Petyr Baelish." She spat out the last two words like a curse, one hand balled into a fist. "Lord Baelish has appointed Ser Elmon Lynderly as the gate's temporary guardian in Ser Donnel's absence, and he has apparently been given orders to allow no one through, no matter their allegiance, family ties, or business in the Vale."

"It's bloody ridiculous is what is," Edmure cried, shaking his head in bitter contempt. "I showed them irrefutable proof of my status as Lord of Riverrun, and they still refused me. They claim to have sent a raven to the Eyrie to ask for 'clarification' of their orders, but gods know how many days that'll take."

Ser Wenmore Manderly, a lesser cousin of Lord Wyman and leader of his house's attendant forces, spoke up next, after lifting his visor and bowing to both siblings in turn.

"A thousand condolences for your grievous loss, my lord and lady; may the Seven guide Lady Lysa's spirit on an easy path. But surely your late sister's soldiers and bannermen can't intend for us to simply sit here in this pass for days on end. We're almost out of provisions as things stand! This must be some sort of misunderstanding, a misinterpretation of their directive, perhaps…"

"This is no misunderstanding," Said Torrhen Mallister, removing his eagle helm and shaking his head- his voice was deadly serious. "We sent word ahead to Lady Lysa that we were coming before we even left the Twins, and the men at the gate didn't seem at all surprised to see the highest lord in the riverlands at their doorstep. Mark my words, they were expecting us, and they've been ordered specifically not to let us pass."

"But why?" Arya piped in, her face screwed up in confusion. "I know he's a scheming little rat who served Joffrey, but isn't Littlefinger in love with you, mother? Wouldn't he want to see you again?"

"Littlefinger serves no one but himself," Catelyn replied coldly. "As for why he doesn't want us there…"

"He knows you'd convince the Vale to join the war under the Young Wolf's banner," Sandor finished. "And I'll bet you good money that would interfere with one of his little schemes. I've watched that snake slither his way around the Red Keep for long enough to know how he thinks. He has an entire kingdom under his thumb now that Lysa's gone, and he'd sooner see us all burn than hand it over."

A grim silence followed, punctuated only by wailing wind and flapping cloaks.

"Speaking of betting," he continued, "I'd wager that Lysa dying just before we arrive isn't much of a coincidence either. How did they say it happened?"

"Pushed out the Moon Door by her bard, Marillion." Catelyn dropped her eyes to the ground. "I don't believe it for a moment. I met him when I came here two years ago, rode through these very mountains with him in my company as I brought Tyrion Lannister to trial. He was an arrogant young man to be sure, but not a murderer. I… don't want to believe that Petyr could possibly have harmed Lysa, but I scarcely know what he's capable of anymore."

"I think I'm going to have a nice, long chat with him once we reach the Eyrie," Edmure growled. "But we must needs make it into the Vale before we think about what he may have done to our sister. If worst comes to worst, the gate looked undermanned when we rode up to it- we have the numbers by a margin of at least ten to one. We can always storm it if they try and stall us for too long, minimize the casualties to Arryn troops."

"Don't be daft," Sandor scoffed. "Armies a dozen times our number have bashed themselves to pieces on that gate, even with siege equipment, which, mind you, we have none of. And who's to say that raven isn't requesting a thousand reinforcements to hold the place against us? It would be suicide."

Catelyn and several of the soldiers in attendance bristled at his bluntness, but Edmure knew he was right, and nodded reluctantly.

"And I don't suppose murdering Valemen it would make a very good first impression in our attempt to win their support. Very well. Pitch camp- I'll go and speak with the men at the gate again soon, see if I can get Ser Elmon to show his face and speak with me directly. Mark my words, we'll be inside before you know it."

Three hours later, they were still firmly on the wrong side of the gate, and the wind had given way to a light snowfall. Arya insisted on lifting stones again in the meantime, but he told her that she'd pull a muscle at this rate if she tried, so she was currently contenting herself with hurling pebbles off a boulder at the edge of camp, seeing how far across the rocks below she could send them sailing. Daryn had been inspired to start a game of target practice with his bow, trying to hit her rocks mid-flight; the two were trading japes and sarcastic remarks interrupted by occasional bouts of laughter, and Sandor butted in to insult their respective skills from time to time as he watched. When the sun began to set in the distance, he was about to call them back to camp when a scout bearing the Hornwood antlers on his surcoat came into view at a full gallop, panting atop his horse, his eyes wild and wide.

Sandor held out a hand to hail the man as he rode by, but he blew clear past them, making a beeline straight for the command tent.

"You two wait here," he called, starting after the horseman; they were so distracted by their game that they'd scarcely noticed him pass.

Breaking into a light job, he passed through the flap minutes later to find the man bent over the table at the tent's center, alongside Edmure, Catelyn, Torrhen, and half a dozen other knights and officers, gesturing urgently to positions on a map of the mountain range. Lady Stark's eyes darkened as soon as she saw him, however, and the scout grew suddenly silent.

"What are you doing here?" She asked bluntly. "Since when were you given permission to traipse into official meetings at your heart's content?"

"It's alright," her brother countered, cradling his brow in one hand, his eyes cast down to the map. "It's better that he knows. We'll need him, after all, and everyone will know soon enough." He gestured to the scout. "Tell him."

The young rider looked close to pissing himself when he turned to face the Hound, flitting his eyes nervously between the floor and a spot somewhere on Sandor's breastplate.

"There's a massive horde of mountain clansmen gathering in a ravine two leagues east of here- there were two thousand of them, easy! They could be here within an hour, they looked ready to march at any moment! I wanted to get closer, get a more accurate count of their numbers, but I was worried they'd spot me, I knew I had to get the word back…"

"You did fine, lad," Edmure said reassuringly, patting the young man on the shoulder before turning his gaze back to Clegane. "It seems the attack last night was merely a test, designed to probe our defenses. In hindsight, I wondered why they sent such a small force against us- our estimates number the Painted Dogs who attacked us at no more than two hundred, compared to our eight hundred- a suicide attack. Despite the blow to our morale it inflicted, we suffered fewer than seventy losses before we routed them. But I suppose enough of the enemy escaped to report back and fulfill their purpose. This is the main attack."

"The Painted Dogs are one of the lesser clans," Protested Ser Wenmore with a frown. "It would be inconceivable for them to raise such numbers just a day after we dealt them a shattering defeat. Could they have formed some sort of confederation with the other tribes?"

"I would have thought it impossible if you'd told me yesterday," Edmure replied. "But the fact that they used a sacrificial attack as a tactic to prepare for a larger one means that we're dealing with something much more than the usual bands of unruly savages who rob travelers and kidnap maidens. They've organized. A few peasants warned our outriders that they'd grown fiercer as we entered the mountains, but I never imagined that they'd dare launch an attack of this scale."

Sandor stepped forward, and laid his palms on the table.

"If they've organized, then it means they've found a leader, or a group of leaders. I have a hunch who that might be."

"Do enlighten us, then." Catelyn narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"I don't suppose you in the North ever heard how Tyrion made it out of the Vale after you tried him at the Eyrie?"

"He went back to the capital with his dirty rat of a sellsword, became Hand of the King. Everyone knows that." Halmund of Last Hearth, the highest-ranking Umber officer in his house's contingent after his superior fell to a slinger's stone the previous night, looked thoroughly unimpressed.

"No, before that. He was taken prisoner by a group of clansmen on his way back, bribed them into becoming his bodyguards with castle-forged armor and weapons. The Imp kept them garrisoned in the Red Keep for half a year as part of his personal forces, let them get used to the good life. They were a bloody menace- if I had it my way, every last one of them would've been gutted. Most of them scattered after Blackwater, but I heard about half made it back to the mountains. If they still have the arms and armor he gave them, and everything they looted from the battle…"

"Then they'd be able to unite the clans around them," Torrhen finished. "Around the promise of getting more."

"Seven hells…" For a moment, Edmure looked ready to panic, but it quickly passed, and his face hardened again. "We'll need to ready our forces for battle at once, and erect all the defenses around the camp that we can. Ser Torrhen, Ser Wenmore, Borrick, Halmund- I leave the preparations to you. I'm riding back to the gate. I don't care how much Baelish is paying them, I refuse to believe that those soldiers could simply watch their countrymen die beneath their feet for the sake of petty politics."

"I'm coming with you," Catelyn interjected. "I can be much more persuasive than you give me credit for, dear brother, and you're not in a position to refuse help."

"Very well. I leave you all to your tasks. Gods be with us."

The men all rushed out of the tent in short order, and Sandor was about to follow when Catelyn grabbed him by the arm.

"Clegane, where is my daughter?" Her tone was measured and even, but it wasn't difficult to detect the question's hidden urgency.

"With Ser Daryn. I'm going to fetch them now, I'll bring her to your tent."

"See that you do, without delay."

"Oh, shit, shit, fucking shit."

Sandor quickly saddled Stranger and rode out to the boulder where he'd left the two, but found it deserted, and resorted to letting out several long streams of profanities. He was about to turn back and check the camp again when he saw a Mallister rider he recognized as one of their scouts returning from his patrol, traveling down a different path than the one the Hornwood had taken; he likely didn't know about the clansmen yet, judging by the lack of urgency in his pace. Sandor quickly waved the man down, and rode out to meet him.

"Did you see Arya Stark out in the pass? She'd have been with the bald hedge knight."

"Aye, I saw them. They were out spearfishing with a few of the Umber lads in a stream a few minutes' ride that way." He jerked his thumb in a general westerly direction, and Sandor scarcely had time to mumble out thanks before he put heel to Stranger and set off at a gallop.

"Clansmen coming, get back to camp!" He shouted back to the scout, passing around a corner and out of earshot before he could be sure that the man heard the warning.

The orange disc of the sun was finally dipping beneath the far peaks when he spotted them at a distance; the shimmering purple and red of the sky reflected scenically on the meltwater stream they and the Umbers had found, nestled at the bottom of a small valley tucked to the side of the main pass. The sound of friendly conversation echoed through the evening air as a bearded Umber soldier attempted to show Arya how to hold a spear; off to the side, Daryn was picking trout out of the shallow water with his bow as two other northmen did the same with spears; their boisterous laughter and the three separate piles of fish they were amassing indicated that it was some sort of competition. They all seemed to be blissfully unaware of the imminent danger, and looked surprised when he shouted down to them from the hilltop.

"Move your arses, you stupid cunts! There are two thousand angry fucking barbarians on their way, and none of you want to be around when they get here!"

"What're you on about, dog?" The lead Umber called, looking up from his game with Daryn. "We already killed all the damn tribesmen last night. Sent 'em runnin' and cryin' back to their holes!"

"I'm not gonna say it again!" He roared, pulling Stranger to a halt at the edge of the stream and holding out a hand to beckon Arya, who was already heading back towards him; Daryn, likewise, was moving swiftly toward where he and the Umbers had tied up their horses around an old tree trunk.

The flurry's tiny white specks were gradually turning into fat round snowflakes, and a sudden gust of wind whipped them into a frenzy as Sandor stared down the stubborn northerner. Just as the man was about to relent, a streak of orange cut through the air like a knife, and one of the other two Umbers fell to the ground with a ragged scream, as if he'd been struck by a thunderbolt, his boiled leather suddenly catching afire. It took them all a moment to realize he'd been stuck by a flaming arrow, and it was another few moments before Sandor caught sight of the mounted bowman who'd fired the shot, concealed against the setting sun at the top of the rise on the far end of the stream. More silhouettes joined his, and soon a dozen cavalry were plainly visible, making their way down the slope in no apparent hurry. The horde's outriders, Sandor guessed, his mind racing as Arya broke into a run and leapt onto the saddle behind him. Scouting for our position, and now they've found us. Two more flaming arrows cut through the evening sky as the Umbers made a mad dash for their own horses, and all at once the enemy riders charged, brandishing bows and axes.

Only throwing a cursory glance to make sure that Daryn had made it to his horse in time, Sandor charged back toward the camp the moment Arya was secure behind him, wincing as a flaming arrow whizzed past his face, close enough for him to feel the heat and worry that his beard might be singed. The hedge knight soon caught up to them as they crested the valley's edge, twisting about in his saddle and firing a shot from his bow that hit its mark, judging from the cry of pain and distant splash that followed. They've crossed the stream, he realized with a start, as several other grunts and cries marked the deaths of the remaining two northmen. They're gaining on us. When they finally emerged back into the main pass, he realized that he was more right than he could have known- two mounted swordsmen were waiting for them, battle cries on their lips.

"FOR THE RED HAND! FOR TIMMETT ONE-EYE!" The nearest yelled, charging forward. Most of his armor was a patchwork of worn hide and leather, but he wore a grimy, stained steel breastplate emblazoned with a faintly visible Lannister lion, and his blade was clearly castle-forged. Burn scars covered much of his body, and Sandor nearly gagged in revulsion at the sight as the man drew near, even as he drew his falchion and swung it forward to parry the man's blow.

Arya's hands wrapped tightly about his waist when the blades first clashed, and somehow, the feeling spurred his sword arm to swing all the more savagely, bashing the man's guard aside and cleaving off his sword arm in two clean blows. The warrior screamed in pain for a moment before toppling to the ground, but one foot caught in his stirrups, and moments later he was dragged off down into the valley they'd just emerged from by his own panicking horse, his body leaving a crimson path across the freshly fallen snow. To Sandor's left, Daryn had made quick work of his foe with a well-timed arrow, and they continued together toward the camp, even as the hoofbeats of their other pursuers became audible behind them. Several more arrows sailed past them, and one landed squarely on the rump of Daryn's mount, but the knight was able to put out the flame and spur his courser onward until they neared the camp's perimeter, and the clansmen gave up the chase at the sight of their massing defenses.

A line of sharpened stakes had been drawn across the pass, with an opening so narrow that Sandor and Daryn had to dismount and lead their horses through in single file. Behind that, ranks of spearmen, archers, and swords had organized into neat formations, with wings of cavalry ready on either flank. As promised, though, he led the little wolf straight past the soldiers to the Tully tent at the makeshift camp's center, where her mother nearly broke down into tears at the sight of them. Sandor wondered why for a moment, until he glanced down at himself and realized that his plates were spattered with blood.

"Arya! Are you alright?!"

The Stark princess released her death grip on her sworn shield's torso only after her mother called her name, but quickly dropped from the saddle and launched herself into her mother's arms all the same. After a long embrace, Catelyn glanced back up to Sandor with bleary eyes; they exchanged a knowing nod, and without another word he dismounted and set off toward the front lines.

The next hour was spent in frantic battle preparations and heated negotiations. His greatsword in hand, Sandor waited at the midst of the frontmost rank of spearmen, alongside Borrick, Daryn, and Ser Wenmore. The Manderly knight had been charged with command of the convoy's rearguard, and as such the brunt of responsibility for the defense fell upon him while Edmure argued and pleaded with the gate's attendants. A new row of stakes was planted in the ground in the interim, and rocks from the pass were piled around and in between then to form a wall of sorts; once all the scouts returned, the narrow gap was closed, plugging off their camp from the rest of the pass completely, with only sheer, unscalable rock faces on either side and the Bloody Gate behind them.

At first, Borrick several of the other officers tried to make idle talk to pass the time, but the mood was dampened considerably when Sandor informed Halmund how his three missing soldiers had died 'being stupid cunts', and so they passed the rest of the time in an uncomfortable silence. He had just opened his mouth to remark that the clansmen best hurry up before he got tired of standing when the sky came alive with glowing orange lights, and the first volley of flaming arrows fell upon them, emerging from the darkening twilight shadows of the pass ahead as if they'd sprung from thin air. All at once two hundred shields sprung into the air as the spearmen attempted to cover themselves, but aside from a few stray shots, most of the volley fell short, impacting their makeshift fortification and setting several of the wooden stakes ablaze. So that's their game, eh? Clever. Too damn clever.

Behind them, he could hear the front rank of archers shouting as they searched for targets, but the shadows concealed almost everything, while the burning torches that illuminated their camp and the gate beyond made them an easy mark. Another flaming volley from the clansmen followed a moment later, and in the brief flash as their arrows were lighted and loosed, the northern archers seized upon the chance and fired at the distant flare of light. There was no indication of whether they'd hit their mark, though- the enemy was too distant for them to hear the screams of the dying. After a few more such exchanges, two thirds of their defensive wall was burning, and their archers were forced to stop returning fire or risk running low on arrows.

The pass grew deadly quiet for a long moment. Snow had begun to fall in earnest now, the peaceful white blanket stretching across the path before them forming a stark contrast to the fires on the wall, which continued unabated. All along the row of spears, soldiers twitched and shifted in place, unnerved by the deafening silence. Sandor tightened his grip around the hilt of his greatsword, daring the enemy to come forward and face him. On cue, a dull roar started in the distance, growing louder and louder with each passing moment. A thousand charging clansmen gradually became visible in the light of the burning fortifications, the steel plate, mail, and blades of their vanguard gleaming in the torchlight. Nocking and aiming as the warriors drew within range, the archers let off a flight that sent dozens tumbling bloodied to the ground, but the horde continued unabated, more mounted scouts stripping ahead of the infantry and loosing arrows and javelins of their own.

At the same time, shouts became audible from the back of their own lines, and Sandor wheeled about to find a Tully cavalryman riding up through the lines, shouting at the top of his lungs.

"They've opened the gate, they've opened the gate! Fall back through the Bloody Gate immediately, by order of Lord Edmure! Fall back!"

Sure enough, both their wings of cavalry and all of the civilian personnel in the camp were moving rapidly towards the narrow opening, fitting as many through at a time as the gate allowed. At least I won't need to save the little brat's arse again, he mused, turning back to the mountain horde. Just a hundred yards away now, the clansmen had momentum on their side, and it would be impossible for all seven hundred and thirty of them to fit through the gate before the enemy caught up. Halmund of Last Hearth and Ser Wenmore came to the same conclusion, it seemed, and exchanged a brief glance. They both tried to speak out at the same time, but Ser Wenmore shouted louder, his sword raised high in the air.

"Men of White Harbor! Hold your ground while the others make for the gate! Let no man accuse us of cowardice of disloyalty this day! Hold fast to the warrior, and let him gird your shield and give strength to your spear! Shall we show these savages what true courage looks like?!"

The hundred Manderly troops bellowed their assent, widening their formation to account for the withdrawal of the Locke, Hornwood, Mallister, Stark, and Tully forces, and baring their weapons in the face of the coming onslaught. Halmund refused to retreat with the other officers, though.

"The men of House Umber do not let friends and allies fight their battles for them!" He cried, raising his poleaxe in the air and turning to face his sixty-odd troops. "Not when our enemy has already spilled the blood of our brothers this very day! I say we stay and make sure they never forget the day they crossed the sons of Last Hearth!

That sent the Umber soldiers into a veritable frenzy of chanting as they took their position at what remained of the forward line, bracing themselves as the clansmen drew close enough to make out the ugly scars that adorned their chests, hands, and faces. The Burned Men, Sandor knew with a shudder. For a moment, he almost considered staying, if only to kill as many as he could, but after a moment's contemplation and a silent nod exchanged with Halmund, he set off after the other soldiers, throwing only a momentary glance over his shoulder when the sound of clashing steel announced that the two fronts had finally met. Fuck honor, they can keep it. I'd chop my own balls off before I let those freaks kill me.

He quickly caught up to Borrick and several of the retreating Starks, and as they neared the gate and the throng attempting to press their way through it, Daryn rode up to meet them, his bow in hand.

"Seven hells, there you are! Are you planning on taking all bloody night?! Run!" To punctuate his words, he paused, aimed his bow, and loosed a shaft; Sandor snapped his head back to see that several mounted clansmen had either broken through the thin northern line or bypassed it entirely at the flanks; at least half a dozen were gaining on them much too quickly for comfort, setting tents alight with torches as they went. Daryn's target fell hard from his mount, and several retreating Stark archers followed his lead, pausing and firing off a volley that cut down three more.

Two were still bearing down on them, though, war cries on their lips as they brandished their blades. One of them chose him as a target; digging his feet into the mud and icy slush, Sandor braced himself for the charge, waiting to swing his greatsword until the last possible moment. When the man was close enough for Sandor to feel his horse's ragged breath, he ducked low and swung as hard as he possibly could. As planned, the man's sword was only able to strike a glancing blow off his dog-head helm while two of his mount's legs were struck cleanly off, and both man and beast toppled to the snowy ground, More tenacious than most, the man quickly struggled to his feet, but his weapon had fallen too far away for him to reach it before Sandor strode over and swung his sword into the warrior's neck, slicing one of his hands in two when he held it up in a vain attempt to shield himself.

Borrick of the Wolfswood made similarly short work of the other horseman; one swing of his warhammer sent the clansman flying from his saddle, and the second caved in his breastplate as he floundered in the snow. The Manderlys and Umbers seemed to be containing the rest of what little cavalry the Burned Men fielded, but they were too few to plug the hole completely against a force of two thousand, no matter how hard they tried. At the points where the line was thinnest, stray clansmen were gradually pushing through in ones and twos, and small holes quickly became widening gaps as the enemy leapt on any advantage they could seize hold of. Half of those who broke through focused on encircling the remaining northerners who stood against them, but the remainder continued their charge straight for the gate.

The rapidly approaching sound of their battle cries was more than enough to spur Sandor to continue his retreat with renewed vigor once he'd withdrawn his blade from his opponent, and the Starks were quick to follow his lead. Daryn pulled ahead of them on his courser, but slowed the horse's pace to keep his employer within a few yards, and twisted around to fire more shafts as he rode.

"Did you take a rock to the fucking head back in that valley?!" Sandor shouted. "Why in seven hells aren't you already through?!"

"Someone has to watch your back, since you're so goddamned bad at it yourself!" The hedge knight called in reply, chuckling as he brought down another target.

By now, the bulk of their forces had made it through the gate, and the far side was visible through the opened doors and raised portcullis. Shouted commands could be heard above the stamping of near a thousand booted feet; as their group passed between the two towers that flanked the pass, a volley of arrows sailed from the battlements into the clansmen's ranks, and when he glanced up, Sandor caught a glimpse of green and black surcoats in the flickering torchlight. But then they were rushing through the gate itself, beneath the weathered stone archway and out into the Vale of Arryn.

A scant few more stragglers followed them through, but not half a minute later, as an ever larger mass of Burned Men grew near, a woman's sharp tone cut through the night air.

"Close the gate!"

Catelyn, he thought at first, but the voice was unmistakably different. He lifted his head up to the gate's battlements to find Lady Anya Waynwood standing on the nearest parapet, surrounded by a dozen guards and attendants as her archers continued to fire on the tribesmen from the main battlements. In fact, the more he looked around, the more he realized that there were Waynwood soldiers everywhere, their orderly formations a marked contrast to the hectic mob of northern and riverland troops that had just spilled through. He counted six hundred in total in the pass, and more Valemen wearing different heraldry beyond them, their armor gleaming silver in the light of the newly emerged moon. Before he could even wrap his mind around the sight, though, the portcullis slammed shut behind them, and Borrick cried out in distress at his side.

"There are still good men stranded out there, my lady, you can't just abandon them!" He lowered his hammer and began to scale the steps to the gate's battlements, holding one hand out in a passionate plea. "With your forces, we could make a proper counterattack, save Halmund and Ser Wenmore before it's too late!"

"No," said the Lady of Ironoaks, her expression hard. "Everyone who could be saved has been saved. I will not throw away Waynwood lives in some grand heroic gesture while we stand atop one of the most defensible fortifications in all seven kingdoms. Those men out there made their choice- to save you by sacrificing their lives. Honor it."

Borrick relented, but climbed the rest of the steps all the same to watch the battle unfold, followed by Daryn, who quickly joined the archers' ranks. Shaking his head in exasperation, Sandor scaled the steps as well, removing his helm and standing alongside the Stark captain. Below them, the Manderlys and Umbers had been entirely encircled, and were waging a desperate last stand against the Burned Men's overwhelming numbers. The clansmen's vanguard rapidly shrank back out of range of the archers at the gate once they realized that it had been closed, and the horde became entirely focused on the elimination of the northerners. As little as he cared for any of them, it still stung Sandor to watch the men cut down one-by-one, though they made a brutal account of themselves, and before the end a ring of enemy bodies was stacked all around them. Finally, a cry of victory went up among the tribesmen, and at the front of their ranks, one man stepped forward toward the gate alone, careful to stay just beyond arrow's reach. He was easily as tall as Sandor and nearly as muscular, with a mane of long, greasy black hair and burn scars across one side of his face. The steel armor he wore was cobbled from a mishmash of different smiths, styles, and houses, and he had painted his own personal sigil on the chest, a raging red fire beneath a crimson hand.

"I am Timmett, son of Timmett," He bellowed, loud enough for them to hear him clearly. "The One-Eye, Red Hand of the Burned Men, Lord of All Tribes, King in the Mountains!"

His followers let out a roaring cheer at that, and Sandor grimaced as the moon's rays fell upon the pass, illuminating their full number, a mass of warriors stretching far back into the snaking canyon. There were a good deal more than two thousand, and more seemed to be pouring in with every passing moment. King in the Mountains, eh? So are we back at five now?

Before he continued, Timmett hoisted aloft the severed head of Ser Wenmore Manderly, easily recognizable by his helm's long teal plume, and Borrick swore viciously.

"Behold my wrath! Every last one of you will suffer the same fate, and my people will take their rightful place as rulers of the Vale! Praise be to the Mountain-Father! Praise be to the Halfman!"

Sandor blinked in shock. Did he just say what I think he did? Sure enough, the rest of the Burned Man quickly picked up the chant, shouting until the single, repeated word was echoing off the canyon walls.

"HALFMAN! HALFMAN! HALFMAN!"

Not an hour later, the clansmen had melted back into the mountains, leaving only blood, fire, and death in their wake. Lady Waynwood, Lord Redfort, and Ser Lyn Corbray, the other Lords Declarant who led of the army of 1200 Valemen who had come to their rescue, were quick to set up a makeshift camp for their disoriented and demoralized visitors, made much easier by the fact that the narrow, snaking pass opened up into a wide valley beyond the gate. Edmure and Catelyn soon made their way to the main tent to treat with the two Vale lords as their troops and camp followers recovered from the rapid retreat; Sandor, for his part, found himself with Daryn and Arya, who showed him to where Stranger was bridled up alongside the other northern horses.

"How many idiots' faces did he kick in while you got him through the gate?" He asked dryly, checking the steed's hooves for blood. "I wouldn't be surprised if he caused as many casualties as the damn clansmen."

"None," Arya responded haughtily, her arms crossed. "Because I was the one who led him through. By now he listens to me almost as well as he does to you. Give me another month and I'll be his new favorite." To demonstrate, she strode up to the black stallion and ran a hand gently along his head; rather than rear, the horse simply whinnied softly.

"Well I'll be fucking damned," Sandor muttered, half beneath his breath. It only made sense, given how much time she'd spent around Stranger over the past year, but all the same it was bewildering to watch. As he marveled at the sight, Daryn flagged down a group of Waynwood soldiers passing by; they recoiled at first at the sight of Sandor, and one nearly drew his sword, but they calmed down when the hedge knight explained the situation.

"So what's the story?" He asked once they were satisfied. "Why wouldn't that other knight let us in, and why are you all out here in force? There some sort of dispute going on?"

"You could say that," an officer replied, nodding gravely. A week ago, soon after Lady Lysa passed, seven rest her soul, Lady Waynwood and seven other lords and nobles were preparing to march on the Gates of the Moon to demand Petyr Baelish's removal from the Vale. Before we could depart, though, we received word that the Knight of the Gate, her son Ser Donnel, had been recalled from his post without official explanation by the Lord Protector, and ordered to return to Ironoaks immediately."

Daryn whistled, running a hand over his shaven head.

"And is he allowed to do that?"

"It's only happened once before in the history of the Vale," the man growled. "During the Dance of the Dragons, when the Knight of the Gate was a Green and Lord Arryn was a Black. But this is not wartime, and Lady Waynwood could not stand for this unprecedented assault on her family's dignity and the kingdom's security, so she and Lord Redfort, being the closest, immediately raised troops to march on the Gate. Ser Lyn heard the news as well, and rode out to join us. We are here to place it back into Ser Donnel's care, by force if need be. We've already removed Ser Elmon and the skeleton force he was maintaining the fortification with, and placed them under temporary custody. He is being questioned now regarding his orders."

"And how to you think Littlefinger's gonna react to that?" Sandor asked, glancing back from Arya. "You think he's gonna just roll over and say he's sorry? That's just the excuse that cunt would need to start a damn war, and you handed it to him on a silver platter."

The officer glared at Sandor in disgust for a moment before mumbling an excuse about supply duty and leaving along with his men, and Daryn shook his head.

"That evil bastard. D'ya think he'd actually do it?"

"It's just like I told Catelyn," Sandor replied coldly. "I watched that man scheme and lie and cheat for almost twenty years. He'd do it in a fucking heartbeat."

As fate would have it, it seemed that they would be finding out the truth of Sandor's words much sooner than anticipated. The same night, as both the Vale and allied northern and riverland forces prepared to march to meet the other Lords Declarant at the Gates of the Moon, fifteen hundred men arrived at the edge of their camp, flying Arryn banners at the head of their ranks. Sandor was in the tent which had been converted into Edmure and Catelyn's makeshift headquarters when the word came, in the form of yet another breathless scout.

"They've asked to speak to you personally, Lady Catelyn." The man finished, prompting a frown from Lord Tully.

"Well I'll go with her, of course, along with Lady Waynwood and Lord Redfort, I presume."

"Only Lady Stark's presence has been requested," Said the scout. "The knight I spoke to was very specific about that."

Edmure bristled at that, and looked ready to yell at the poor boy when his sister placed a hand on his shoulder, her face a mask of calm that mostly hid the palpable rage beneath.

"Let me handle this, dear brother. I have an idea who I'll be treating with."

After a moment's hesitation he relented, and let her leave with the warning that he'd be coming to fetch her with all the soldiers at his command if she wasn't back within half an hour. Nodding silently, she passed out the flap, and Sandor was left alone with Edmure and Arya, who'd been standing silently at her sworn shield's side for the duration of the conversation.

"If he hurts her, I get to stab him, right?" She asked dispassionately, her hand on Needle's hilt. Edmure chuckled, and kneeled down to look her in the eye, clapping one hand on her arm.

"If he hurts her, we both get to stab him, dearie. But I'll be going first."

"And I'll finish him off if both of you turn out to be too shit at fighting to kill the bastard," Sandor finished, allowing himself a small smirk.

And so they waited in relative silence, until ten minutes later, furious shouting became audible just outside the tent, along with the thumping of several pairs of boots.

"I'll have nothing to do with this Petyr, for the last time! I can't believe a word coming out of your mouth!"

"Cat, please, just listen to me! Just come back to the Eyrie, we can sit down and have a reasonable conversation, away from all these distractions…"

"I told you, don't call me that! Never again!"

The flap burst open, and Catelyn stormed through, snowflakes falling from her hair. Littlefinger followed closely behind, flanked by two nobles, one of whom Sandor recognized from tourneys as Nestor Royce- the other wore the Lynderly snakes on his surcoat, and had the regal look of a lord.

"Cat," He was saying, his arms outstretched, "don't be like that, now. I know that you must be emotional after hearing about poor Lysa, but-"

"Not one step closer to her," Edmure snapped, barring his sword.

Petyr stopped short at the sight, glancing around at his surroundings. He visibly flinched when he saw Arya and Sandor, his eyes widening for an instant before his face returned to its usual mask of tranquil confidence. After a moment's tense silence, Nestor stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Lord Tully, it's excellent to make your acquaintance. I must warn you, though, to take care with that blade. Elsewise, we might think that you mean to threaten the Lord Protector of the Vale with violence."

"Of course I had no such intent," He managed, his face flushing the same color as his beard as he released his grip on the hilt, though the anger didn't leave his eyes. "But if Lord Baelish means to threaten the honor of my dear sister, then I would be obligated to defend it."

"I would never," He replied without a moment's hesitation. "I was only trying to explain to Lady Catelyn that this unfortunate incident with the Gate was a terrible misunderstanding, nothing more."

"Oh, well in that case, do continue your explanation, by all means," came another voice; the flap opened once again, and Ser Lyn Corbray strode through, with Lady Waynwood and Lord Redfort close behind. Sandor felt a twinge of unease deep in the pit of his stomach the moment he laid his eyes on the infamous knight. A handsome man with shoulder-length brown hair, Lyn bore himself with the stature of a hero, and the self-assured confidence bordering on arrogance that exuded from his every word and movement was undeniable, but at the same time there was something off about the man that he couldn't quite put his finger on, something sleazy and disingenuous- it was just a gut feeling, but he already disliked him.

"Indeed, please do," continued Lady Anya, brushing past Nestor and the Lynderly and laying her palms flat on the table. "I'm most curious to hear it. And while you're explaining, I'd also be thrilled to hear why only Lady Stark was invited to hear this explanation, rather than the Vale lords you claim to represent."

"Ah, my Lords and Ladies!" Petyr clapped his hands together, and smiled a wide smile. "You've caught me at a disadvantage. I merely wished to greet my childhood friend before I properly received you all in my tent- Lord Jon, Lord Nestor and I have an encampment just half a league to the east. Since we're all here now, let's ride over to it together; I have wine and food ready for all of you, and we can have a proper, civil discussion about the matter at hand."

Horton Redfort stepped up to Anya's side and shook his head.

"No. You were the one who violated Vale law and historical precedent by removing a Knight of the Gate without just cause or explanation. This discussion will happen here, in our camp, on our terms."

Petyr hesitated for a moment, one eyebrow twitching ever so slightly. But the smile returned just as quickly, and he nodded graciously.

"Why of course! I'd be more than happy to talk here. But I must request certain terms- you understand, naturally. Privacy, for instance, from children and suspected brigands…"

He glanced pointedly in Sandor and Arya's direction, and with a nod from Catelyn, they took their leave and set off toward the far end of the camp. All around them, he quickly noticed that the Waynwood and Redwood troops were on high alert, in a marked contrast to their northern and riverland counterparts, fully armed and ready for battle as they watched the perimeter with hawklike eyes. Taking the hint, he decided to keep his armor on and his sword by his side while they waited. In the end, the negotiations were shorter than expected; little more than an hour later, Catelyn sought them out, breathing a heavy sigh and taking a seat on a stone by Arya's side.

"I swear, I thought I was used to politics after staying with Robb for so long. But with that man, it's something else entirely- it's as if this is all just some sort of game to him, and everyone is either a pawn or an obstacle rather than human being!"

That's exactly what it is, Sandor mused, and you and your son are both too foolish to start playing. He thought better of actually saying it.

"Well? What happened?"

"He claims that Ser Donnel's removal was due to 'valid concerns' about his family's loyalty in light of the imminent move on the Gates of the Moon by the Lords Declarant, but ultimately we forced him to admit that he should have sought the consent of his subjects before doing so. He also claims that Ser Elmon was only ever meant to be a temporary replacement until negotiations with the Waynwoods and the other houses could take place, and agreed to allow Ser Donnel to take back his position, given that Lady Anya releases Ser Elmon and his men from custody. Ser Lyn, Lord Horton and I sought to press her to seek harsher reprisals, but Littlefinger brought up the issue of House Waynwood's debts, and she was forced to accept his terms without further demands."

"Well, that's not so bad," Sandor grunted. "I thought he'd try and wring more from you."

"Oh, I fear that he will, in time. There is to be a formal summit hosted by Lord Nestor at the Gates of the Moon, between the Lords Declarant, Petyr's main supporters- Lynderly, Grafton, Corbray, Arryn of Gulltown- and several representatives from the houses which still remain neutral. After the question of his rule as Lord Protector is addressed, Edmure and I will be allowed to make our case before the assembled lords, and ask them to join the war under Robb's banner. From what Lord Redfort indicated, I believe that after the attempt on my son's life and the death of Joffrey, we will be able to carry the majority. As new and unpopular as his rule is, Petyr will not be able to stop half the noble houses in the Vale if they choose to join us."

"Corbray." Sandor's eyes narrowed. "Isn't that prick Lyn a Corbray? I thought he was with the Lords Declarant."

"He is, but his lord brother, Lyonel, is a devotee of Littlefinger's. House Royce is similarly split- Lord Yohn of Runestone is one of Petyr's fiercest critics, but his cousin Nestor of the Gates of the Moon was one of his earliest allies. That is what I fear most about a civil war here- setting brother against brother, father against son."

"Hm, Well as long as you don't bungle this summit too badly, you shouldn't have to worry about that. Did you ask him about your sister?"

Her countenance visibly sank.

"I tried, but he deflected the question, said that the matter was settled, and that the questions at hand regarding the Vale's future were more pressing for now. Lord Redfort and Lady Waynwood were too preoccupied with their own agendas to help me see the issue through." Bit by bit, the anger that she'd shown earlier returned to her eyes as she spoke. "But I must have closure. I know he's lying. He hurt her, I can feel it. Once we get to the summit, he'll just deflect again, say that the negotiations take precedent. I have to get answers tonight." She stood, her face full of steely resolve. "I'm going to his camp, but I don't dare venture into his clutches alone. Will you ride there with me?"

Sandor blinked in surprise, and a glance down to Arya confirmed that she was equally shocked.

"Aye, of course,"

After leaving Arya in Edmure's dubiously capable hands, they set out for the stables, and Sandor prayed silently to the Seven that she wouldn't yell at him about the lifting stones business. Halfway to their destination, they ran into Lyn Corbray, who quickly fell to one knee when she informed him of her mission.

"Lady Stark, please do me the honor of allowing me to join your escort. I wouldn't be able to sleep tonight if I knew there was a chance that you could fall into Lord Baelish's clutches at any moment. And what's more, my heart still aches for Lysa, just as yours does- scarce did a moment pass by when I wasn't at her side after the tragic death of Lord Arryn, until she fell victim to Littlefinger's wiles. Honor demands that I must have answers as well."

You were one of her bloody suitors, is what you mean, thought Sandor with a grimace. He almost said something to that effect, but Catelyn smiled and nodded before he could.

"Of course, Ser Lyn- my thanks for your offer. I've heard many tales of your prowess in battle."

"Indeed- my own lady is the best guard you could ask for," said Lyn, smiling a roguish smile and patting the heart-shaped hilt of his infamous blade, the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of the Corbrays, Lady Forlorn. "She'll keep you safe, no matter what- I swear it on my life."

And so the three of them mounted up and rode together to the Lynderly and Royce encampment; the guards quickly waved them through when they recognized Catelyn, and within a minute they were standing inside Littlefinger's tent, a luxurious monstrosity of silk and canvas emblazoned with both his own personal mockingbird symbol and the Arryn crest.

He was standing by the brazier when they entered, in close conversation with Ser Elmon Lynderly, only recently freed from his shackles by the Waynwoods. Lord Jon's older cousin, he had a rather rough-hewn, brutish face, with prematurely greying shoulder-length hair and a short, salt-and-pepper beard. Two guards in moon-and-falcon livery bristled at the sight of the intruders, but a wave of Petyr's hand set them at ease, and he broke out into a broad smile.

"Cat, so good to see you again so soon! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I told you," she snapped, "none of that! I want answers, Petyr, answers about Lysa!"

"I already told you, that boy Marillion did it! He was mad with jealousy over your sister's affection for me, he couldn't handle seeing her love another. Sometimes men simply snap under such strain! I could arrange for you to speak with him if you'd like, hear his confession firsthand…"

"No. I've heard enough of your lies for a lifetime. I needn't hear another." She took a menacing step toward Baelish, and Ser Elmon moved to intercept her, a motion that Sandor matched, stepping deftly in between the two and staring down at the shorter knight with cold, unforgiving eyes.

That's right, little man, his gaze dared, just try it. Elmon tried to stare back for a heartbeat, but his streak of courage swiftly ran dry, and after mumbling something indistinct he shuffled over to the flap, where he stood sullenly next to the Arryn guards.

"If you don't accept the facts of the situation, what am I supposed to tell you, Cat?" Littlefinger cried, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"The truth, Petyr! For once in your miserable life, tell me the truth! Did you kill my sister?!"

"Must you invent conspiracies at every unfortunate circumstance?! This is no different than your last false accusation against-" Petyr caught himself midsentence, and the brief flush of color on his face told Sandor that he knew he'd said too much.

"Against Tyrion Lannister? This is entirely different!" Catelyn paused, and realization slowly began to dawn on her face. "You… I remember… you were the one who told me about the dagger…"

"I can scarcely recall, Cat, it seems so long ago. But now that Lysa's gone, we must needs talk about young Lord Robert…"

"You know, Tyrion always insisted that it wasn't his dagger, right up until the very last opportunity to confess that I gave him. And the more that I've thought about it over the years, why would he want to harm Bran? Why kill another cripple, another misfit like himself? Joffrey, that little monster, I could see him doing it. Maybe even Cersei or Robert, in some misguided attempt to spare us the pain of watching our son suffer. But nothing I've ever heard about Tyrion indicates that he would have a desire to hurt my family in such a cruel way. He saved my life, you know, from a clansman out in the pass. Why would he save my life if he'd just tried to murder my son? If he wanted to make my family suffer?"

"Now what's the use in delving into such a horrid event that happened so far in the past? I think it's best to…"

"And it was all so clumsy, too. It's often said that Tyrion is the smartest of the Lannisters aside from Tywin himself, always with his nose in a book as a boy. All the time that I spent with him, dragging him from the crossroads to the Eyrie, nothing he did or said contradicted that. He was a devilishly clever little man. So if he wanted to kill Bran, why try in such a foolish manner? Giving the footpaw his own blade? Sending him into the heart of Winterfell? It was as if whoever ordered the killing… wanted to be found out."

"Now you're just being ridiculous. This is all speculation."

"How could I not have seen it then? Of course it wasn't Tyrion's dagger. You told me it was his because you knew I would arrest him."

"Cat, as well-connected as I am, even I make mistakes sometimes. It seems that I was misinformed, a simple error."

"No. It was no mistake. You were absolutely certain of what you were telling me, I remember your damned voice. You framed Tyrion. I arrested him. And from there…"

The revelation hit her like a thunderclap- all at once, her eyes widened, and her jaw slackened in shock.

"By the gods, it was you. You started the War of the Five Kings. You are the cause of all the blood and death that have washed over this country like a plague for two long years. You were behind all of it, from the very beginning! Petyr, why?!"

"Cat, please- now you're simply spouting nonsense. What reason would I have to-"

"What's next?! Did you kill Jon Arryn?! Convince Joffrey to order my husband's execution?! Are you responsible for every misfortune that has befallen my family since I spurned you to marry Brandon Stark?!" Her voice rose with every accusation, until she was practically shouting; from a yard away, Sandor could see that she was trembling with anger.

"The news of Lysa's death has you hysterical. Perhaps you should lie down and rest." He looked to one of the guards. "Go and fetch the maester, I believe Lady Stark is in need of his care."

"Belay that order, son." Sandor took one massive step toward the guard in question, treating him to the same glare that Ser Elmon had received. "The lady doesn't need a maester."

"I most certainly do not," Catelyn said, turning and starting toward the exit. "What I need is to think a good deal about the past two years, and to have a long conversation with my brother, Lord Redfort, and Lady Waynwood. I can't stand to look at you for another moment."

Just as she reached the flap, though, Lyn Corbray stepped in front of it to block her path, and Sandor's blood ran cold.

"Ser Lyn, move aside. There's nothing more for us here, we must needs return to our camp."

"Get away from him!" Sandor bellowed, closing the rest of the distance to the entrance as his hands shot to his greatsword's hilt. I was right about him. Gods damn it all, why did I have to be right? But his cumbersome weapon was a beat too slow to draw, and by the time he could bring it to bear, the tip of Lady Forlorn was already at his throat; the steel sang when it left its sheath, and when he laid his eyes upon its full length, Sandor couldn't help but think that it was the most beautiful sword he had ever seen.

Shaking the thought aside, he tried to take a step back, but then the cold tip of a dirk brushed along his temple- like a fool, he hadn't worn his helm- and a mailed arm wrapped around his chest from behind.

"You're staying right here where you are, like a good dog," said Elmon Lynderly, his breath hot in Sandor's ear. "Now drop the greatsword and don't move a muscle, or I'm going to skewer your brain like a damn melon."

His heart sinking in his chest, Sandor's eyes drifted to Catelyn. Ordinarily, he would be furious that he'd let his guard down so easily, that he'd underestimated the enemy, but the anger didn't come, leaving only disappointment and regret in its stead. I failed her. I failed Arya.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, letting his blade fall to the ground.

Catelyn glanced back from Sandor to Lyn, still standing in her way as he held out his sword.

"Ser Lyn, what is the meaning of this?! What do you think you're doing?!"

"He's doing what I pay him to do," Littlefinger said from the back of the tent, his expression the picture of perfect calm. He nodded to the guards, and they departed in short order. "Tell me, Catelyn, if you truly believe me guilty of half the things you just accused me of, what reason would I have to let you leave this camp of your own free will?"

All of the confidence she'd gained over the past few minutes withered away in an instant, replaced by silent horror.

"You wouldn't dare…"

"I don't like it," he replied, "but I will do it. Ser Lyn, take Lady Catelyn away, if you would, and escort her to cell. I'll deal with her later. And do take care not to harm her."

"What about the dog?" Piped in Ser Elmon. "Probably safest to kill him."

"Safest, perhaps, but not the most lucrative. The royal bounty on him has grown quite high since he joined causes with Robb Stark, and they're offering more for a live hound than a dead one. Put him in irons, and in a cell as far from hers as possible."

"Forgive me, Lady Stark, this is hardly personal." Once he was sure Elmon had Sandor well in hand, Lyn lowered his sword and placed his other hand firmly on Catelyn's shoulder. "Now come with me, and-"

"Gret away from me, you damned traitor!" Shoving his arm away, she slapped Lyn hard across the face- or so Sandor thought, until blood began to spill from two long scratches that ran from his forehead to his mouth. The knight screamed in agony, and his hand shot to his left eye; scarlet seeped out from between the gloved fingers.

"WHAT DID YOU JUST DO TO ME, YOU BITCH?!" He roared, his one good eye shining with pure rage.

Catelyn started to back away, and Littlefinger began to move rapidly toward the two, one hand outstretched. He was too late.

In a single fluid motion, Lyn Corbray stepped forward and plunged Lady Forlorn deep into Catelyn's stomach, grabbing hold of her throat and holding her in place with his bloodied hand to make sure the blade pierced through. His mouth agape in abject horror, Petyr caught her limp body as it fell, and cradled her on the floor as Lyn stood above them, panting.

"I TOLD YOU SHE WASN'T TO BE HARMED!" He shouted; tears were welling in his eyes, and he let out a low moan. "Cat, stay with me, I'm here."

"Fuck her." Lyn grunted, letting the blood flow freely now- his scraped eye was a crimson ruin. His teeth grit against the pain, he reached down and tore off a long strip of Catelyn's dress, wrapping the cloth around the left side of his face. Once he'd tied it off in a knot, he began to stride toward the flap, unfastening a war horn from his belt. "Fuck all of them. I'm sounding the attack."

"But I thought we weren't attacking until dawn?" Said Elmon. For one brief moment he glanced to Littlefinger in confusion, and his grip slackened ever so slightly- Sandor could feel his muscles relax, see the glint of the man's blade drift away from his temple by just a few hairlengths. It was all he needed.

Driving his steel-plated elbow into Elmon's gut, Sandor winced as the dirk's tip raked along his skin, but ducked and twisted before the knight could drive it into his skull, pivoting and grabbing hold of the man's throat with one hand and his wrist with the other. He twisted hard on both; the wrist broke first, and once Elmon had dropped the dagger with a gurgle of pain, he diverted that hand to the knight's head, and pulled hard in one direction. By the time Elmon's neck had snapped, though, Sandor could already see Lyn closing on him out of the corner of his eye, hear the air whistling as the man's sword arced toward him.

He barely leapt out of the way in time to dodge the first swing, which bounced cleanly off the edge of one of his plates instead of striking his head off as intended. Pulling a rondel from his boot, he snatched Elmon's dirk from the floor, and thrust the two blades forward just in time to parry his opponent's second attack. He tried to close the gap between them and thrust for a joint with the rondel, but Lyn sidestepped him with the grace of a water dancer and angled a savage downward strike; he was forced on the retreat as an onslaught of perfectly timed blows tore apart his meager defenses in a matter of seconds. A shallow cut quickly appeared on his face, and another at his side where the ringmail was thin. Lashing out with both weapons, he tried to launch a counterattack, but Lyn was inexorable, unstoppable. Lady Forlorn moved like an extension of his arm; her next strike clove straight through the dirk and bit into the joint at Sandor's elbow, leaving him with a brutal gash that leaked scarlet from beneath the leather and mail.

Letting out a yell of pain and fury, Sandor thrust a savage kick at his opponent's knee. It didn't fully connect, but staggered the knight just long enough for him to back away, tip the brazier in Lyn's direction, and vault over the table at the tent's center. Landing cleanly on the other end, he grabbed his greatsword off the floor and bolted outside, sprinting full-tilt for the stables. I'm sorry, Catelyn, but I can't help you now. I have to warn the others. I have to protect Arya. Behind him, Lyn had stepped outside the tent as well, but a backward glance confirmed that he was walking, not running- he wasn't pursuing Sandor anymore. Instead, he lifted the war horn from earlier up to his lips, and let out two booming blasts. All at once, the camp around them came to life, and the thud of boots and whinnying of horses filled the air. In the flickering torchlight, Sandor could only watch as the army of the Lord Protector marched off to kill their countrymen, flying high and proud the standards of House Arryn.

He was within sight of Stranger when an arrow took him in the thigh, and he fell to one knee with a grunt. A group of archers bearing Nestor Royce's heraldry emerged from the shadows, their bows trained on his head as they moved to surround him.

"We have orders to take you alive," said one. "Come quietly, Clegane, don't make this difficult."

"Come quietly. That's funny. Really funny." Sandor chuckled grimly, and pushed himself back to his feet, his grip tight about his greatsword. "Now tell me, if you're done making japes. Which one of you fuckers wants to die first?"

Hope you all enjoyed- the end was both incredibly fun and incredibly hard to write at the same time. What did you think of Catelyn's revelation? I know it's been a while since I last updated, but please leave a review if you can, it means so much! They're really what keep me going when things get busy. Next up should be a Jason chapter, unless I change my mind!