CHAPTER 25: DOG CATCHERS

Night has come and gone much quieter than Lem's group had hours before. A sense of uneasiness seemed to make home in the minds of the remaining Brotherhood members. Most are quiet as they shuffle through camp, going about their business with a level of alertness uncommon for such a rowdy bunch of outlaws, and Anguy is no expection.

He's sat around the fire he had been the night previous. All that remains is a pile of dark soot. He digs the toe of his already dirty boot into the ash as he thinks, a deep groove appearing between his brows.

What he wouldn't give to hunt Lem and his bastards down. They made fools of the entire Brotherhood, perversing their cause and carrying on as if no one would notice. But that's what really gets him. That no one noticed. He didn't notice until it was almost too late. What kind of archer is he if he can't even see what's right in front of him?

A sharp nudge to his arm pulls his scowl from the ash before him. He raises his head to see Linette staring back at him, her head tilted to the side in a curious manner that reminds him of the way his father's curs used to.

"What's got you thinking so hard?" she asks. The teasing in her voice almost makes him smile, but one look at her face and he's reminded of the other reason that he wants to put an arrow so far up Lem's ass that his innards come out his mouth.

"That hurt much?" he asks roughly, jutting his chin toward the angry bruises that cover her face. The dark blues and purples stick out offensively against the light color of her swollen skin. She shrugs indifferently at his question.

"As much as you probably think it does." She spares him a smile that he doesn't return before nudging him with her elbow again. "Don't frown so much, Anguy. It ages you."

He snorts. It's the closest thing to a laugh she'll get from him, but she seems satisfied by it.

"Thank you, by the way," she says, "for being there to fight with me when I needed you."

"For saving you, you mean?"

Her lips twitch. "No. A few more rounds and I would've had them begging."

He opens his mouth to disagree vehemently, but Gendry butts in from his spot on the other side of Linette.

"Everyone knows a swordman's worth at least three archers."

Anguy glares half-heartedly at the boy. "And archers are worth twice as much as smiths. Especially Tobho Mott's eunuch."

Gendry's mouth falls open. Linette splutters with laughter, wincing a little at the action's tug on her skin. Anguy and Gendry watch her with concern, but she makes no mention of discomfort and quickly engages Gendry in some discussion concerning smelting. Anguy tunes out their voices almost immediately, so when Thoros comes and taps him on the shoudler, he's quick to hide his embarrassment at the way he startles. The priest barely manages to hide a grin.

"Talk to you for a minute?" he asks.

Anguy quirks a brow in question, but Thoros turns and walks away without another word, clearly expecting Anguy to follow. He supposes it's something meant for only his ears, or just not for his company at the moment.

"Don't kill anyone while I'm gone, thief," he says to the silver haired woman beside him. She gives him a sour look which makes him chuckle. She's a hellion, that one. All ice-beauty and fire, even with her face bruised and swollen the way it is.

"I'll do my best," she replies, turning to Gendry to continue their debate on smithing techniques. It's an utterly useless topic to Anguy but apparently fascinating to the younger two. He ruffles Linette's hair fondly before standing and heading off in the direction Thoros disappeared in. The morning sun is just rising and the camp with it. Men are packing up the horses, something Anguy is exceedingly glad he doesn't have to do right now. He'd much rather guard the girl.

He finds Thoros at the edge of camp. The ginger stands looking out on the forest with a sharp gaze. Anguy's first instinct is to assume there's something wrong. His dark eyes scan the trees quickly for any sign of danger.

"What do you need, Thoros?" he asks, one hand on the strap holding his bow.

"We can't let them just walk away," Thoros says with a sigh. His fingers rest leisurely on the hilt of his sword, but the pinch between his brow shows he's anything but relaxed.

Anguy frowns. "Let who walk away?"

"Lem."

The archer nods in understanding. Knowing there's no present danger, he relaxes as he turns his gaze from the trees. "Isn't it a little late for that? They've been gone for hours. Could be across The Trident by now."

"I know." Thoros sighs again. He turns away from the forest to look at Anguy. "I wanted to give them a chance to sober up. Thought they might come back…"

"I don't want 'em back," Anguy shakes his head roughly.

Thoros smirks. "Me either."

The ginger's eyes drift to the camp and the headful of long, silver curls on the other side.

"She doing alright?" he asks, worry and anger intermixing in his wise, blue eyes.

Anguy follows his leader's line of sight. He smiles proudly. "Actin' like nothin' even happened. Still practicin' with my bow, annoyin' the shit out of me…" he shakes his head, "If half the men in camp had balls like hers, this war would be over by Tuesday."

Thoros nods in agreement. "Aye. Her and the little one. Quite a pair."

Anguy's smirk widens. He remembers what Linette told him yesterday about her and the Hound. She may not have said it outright, but it's obvious that she and the dog were more than friends. Her pretty little blush said as much. The thought of the Hound with any woman amuses Anguy, but he supposes if anyone were to put a leash on the dog it would be someone like her. Kind hearted and honest, but fierce as fire and strong as steel.

"So," Anguy turns away from the girl to Thoros, back to business, "You want me to track down the bastards?"

Thoros nods, still watching Linette. "Eventually, but not yet."

It's the type of cryptic answer Anguy is used to from the priest.

"Alright…" he drawls, "Then what do you need me for? Figure it's not just 'cus you missed my company."

"Fuck no," Thoros grins and turns to the archer. "Need you to scout ahead. We'll be heading to the Inn at the Crossroads to get that meal I promised, but we can't have soldiers lingering around. It'd be bad for our health. Besides, Lem and his crew might have gone there. I would have if I were them. Besides Saltpans, it's the closest city from here and they wouldn't dare go to Saltpans, not with all the King's men who hang about."

Anguy nods like the good soldier he is. "Alright. Am I takin' the horses?"

"Them and a couple men. Don't care who. Five would be enough."

"Don't think I can take Lem and his fools down by myself?"

Thoros chuckles, patting Anguy on the shoulder in a brotherly fashion. "I know you could, but I also know you'd kill them soon as you set eyes on them."

Anguy frowns. "Course I would. What's wrong with that?"

"They're due a fair trial for any and all crimes," the ginger reminds with a hint of remorse. "Just because their crimes happen to affect someone we know, doesn't mean we drop all semblance of justice."

Anguy begins to argue, feeling defensive of either Linette or himself, he's not sure which, but Thoros interrupts him before he can speak. "Just don't go killing anyone, alright? Bring them to me. No arrows through the ass. I know you want to have your fun but hold off. "

Anguy smirks. "Thought you were a priest. Killing ain't supposed to be fun."

"Just because I'm a priest doesn't mean I'm a very good one. Try as I might."

"Lord knows you try awful hard."

Thoros makes his best attempt to glare which only makes both men laugh.

"I'll see you lot later then," Anguy says, clapping the ginger on the back. "Don't be too slow or I'll drink all the rum before you get there."

"Now that's something I would have fun killing you for."

The archer laughs, saluting his leader, before heading off in the direction of the horses.

"Graige, Christor, Serion, Alix, and Jorrel!" he yells in the men's general direction. "You're with me! We're takin' the horses!"

There's a collective groan from all the men whose names he hadn't called. They know they'll all have to walk now. Anguy grins as he saddles his favorite horse.

"Where we goin'?" Christor asks, riding up on the smallest of their steeds. It's fitting since the wrinkled man is slight and meager in height himself.

"Scouting," Anguy jumps atop his horse. The lean, blood-bay gelding stomps his hooves in the dirt before settling under the archer's weight. "Up near the Inn at the Crossroads. Gonna see if there's any soldiers. Them or Lem's group."

"Killing or capturing?" asks a broad-shouldered man, Alix, as the rest of the men Anguy called ride up.

The archer sighs, "Capturing."

"You don't seem happy about that," Christor smirks. "Is it 'cus they hurt your girl?"

An amused snort passes Anguy's lips.

"She ain't my girl," he smirks knowingly, "but she is someone's, and believe me, Lem would be a whole lot happier if it's us who find him instead."

The men raise their brows and share questioning glances. Anguy can tell they want him to go on, but he doesn't talk. He smirks, keeping his mystery, and pulls his horse around in the direction of the Inn at the Crossroads.

"Come on. It's an hour and a half ride at least. Rather not sit around chatting."

With that, he takes off. It's a second or two before the men follow him, but he soon hears the pounding of the horses' hooves on the dirt.

Just as he expected, the trip doesn't take more than two hours. The inn, true to its name, sits at the crossroads between the Kingsroad running north-south, the River Road which goes West through the Riverlands, and the High Road going East to the Vale. A hearty place built of stone and timber, the inn looks a welcoming place. With large windows and several chimneys, the place is typically bustling with customers, but wartime keeps people away. The men hear and see no one around other than a washerwoman who carries an almost empty wicker basket into the inn.

"Go check inside." Anguy directs his order to Serion, the quickest of the group. The eager lad nods before jumping off his horse and handing the reins to Alix. His gait is spry and focused as he enters the inn.

"Don't think anyone will be here," Jorrel comments. He's lazily eyeing the open roads and thick trees around them. Not a single person in sight.

"Aye," Anguy agrees, "Probably hasn't been for awhile."

Serion comes running out a few minutes later, shaking his head.

"Innkeeper said there ain't been anyone here for four nights at least," he relays when he reaches them, "Was pretty damn happy to see me come in."

"He'll likely wet himself when the rest get here," Alix muses.

Graige smirks. "Aye. There's good in drinking yet."

Anguy can't help but grin at the men's good spirits. He brings his horse around to Alix's and takes the second set of reins out of his hands.

"Stay here, Serion," he says, handing his horse's reins back to him. "Watch the roads and make damn sure none of the Lannister fuckers end up in the inn before Thoros does."

The lad nods dutifully and mounts his steed.

"Where we goin'?" asks Jorrell.

"North," Anguy points in the direction. "There's a village there. Small, but soldiers use it to make camp since it's a good ways off the road. It's not far from here, but close enough to cause a problem for us later. Be best to check it out."

The men nod and ask no more questions as Anguy takes the lead. With one snap of the reins, his horse picks up speed, it's hooves beating steadily against the dirt road.

Another half hour of riding has them at the village. It's small, a village by name only. The buildings are spread out, as if the residents seriously disliked each other's stench. Trees surround the area, but the civilized space is completely flat and brown. Anguy spots the plain from a hilltop nearby. He slows his horse a mile or so off, wary to enter without having an idea of who might be there to greet them.

"Keep your eyes open, lads," he orders, gripping his horse's reins.

The men nod and pull their steeds closer to walk as a group. There's no sign of soldiers, no horses or campfires left in the grass on the outskirts of the village, but Anguy leads them into town anyway. He's nothing if not thorough.

"Don't see nothin' other than shit," Graige murmurs angrily as they pass a pair of skinny children dressed in rags.

"Aye…" Anguy agrees sadly.

Alix stops to give the children half of the bread he has in his saddle bag. They squeal in delight before running off, their bare feet caked in mud.

"Wait," Jorrel suddenly yanks his horse to a stop. The other men all turn quickly, not worried about the kids anymore, and see the largest man of their group pointing toward a building across the street. It looks like a tavern, but it isn't as busy as one normally would be. Only a few horses are tethered outside.

"That's a warhorse," Jorrel says, turning back to his comrades with a serious expression, "Tell me it ain't."

Anguy frowns and looks back at the horses outside the tavern. Now that he's looking twice, he quickly notices the horse Jorrel had. It's a heavy courser, much larger than all the others. He's a handsome stallion, black as night with strong, thick muscles.

"Aye," Alix gives Jorrel a tight-lipped nod. "That's a warhorse alright."

"Why would anyone here have a warhorse?" Graige frowns.

"I'll go check it out," Christor jumps off his steed, knowing what Anguy's next move will be. The small man quickly slinks across the road and into the tavern.

It's only a few moments before he comes back out. Anguy's surprised. It shouldn't be that easy to figure out who owns the horse. His surprise turns into confusion when he sees Christor's face. The man's eyes are wide, fear shimmering beneath them, but his cracked lips are pulled up in a wide arch.

"The fuck did you see in there?" Jorrel asks, noticing the odd excitement.

Christor shakes his head, breathing hard, and jumps back on his horse. He grins wide at Anguy, that fearful look still in his eyes.

"It's the fucking Hound," he gasps.

The men's expressions melt to match Christor's. All except Anguy. His eyes widen in momentary shock before a loud burst of laughter escapes him. The others look at him like he's mad.

"You think that's funny?!" Graige barks when Anguy continues to laugh. "It's the Hound! He could tear your head off with his bare hands!"

Alix shakes his head. "No, that's the Mountain."

"It's both of 'em!" Christor corrects.

Anguy's laughter dies down then and the men stop their squabbling to look at him expectantly. The archer only grins. He yanks his steed forward in the direction of the tavern.

What are the odds that he'd find the dog here? With his girl not far behind him either. The idea is highly amusing to the archer. He can't just ignore the coincidence. The little lady would be happy to see her Hound anyway, and he supposes the man wouldn't be opposed to seeing his thief again. If he's wrong, then Thoros or Beric will be pleased at having the Lannister dog in their custody. It's a win either way

"Come on, lads!" the archer calls over his shoulder at his men. They stare at him incredulously. He grins. "We're dog catchers today!"

~8~

Sandor can't remember ever being this tired or this angry.

He was sure nothing could be worse than the feeling of having Linette missing for a whole week, only to be proven wrong at the feeling of having her missing for two. Then three. Three whole fucking weeks. All he's done is search for her. Both he and Stranger are run ragged, moving from one town to another, following rumors of where the Brotherhood might be. He hasn't seen them once.

The only thing he does besides search is drink. Constantly. He hasn't had a proper meal in those three weeks, taking comfort in ale and wine at the shit inns he finds instead. It puts him in a foul mood, but sobriety is worse. The pain he feels when he's coherent makes him angrier than he can ever remember being.

At first he was angry at the girl. The minx was able to claw her way into his life with her sweet words and her useless swordfighting and her stupid, fucking smile. Who the hell is she anyway? Just a peasant girl he shouldn't even care about. But he does.

When he lets himself realize that, the anger at her disappears. In its place is a deep burning rage at everything else. The world must hate him more than he thought. He hates it right back though. Just when he was starting to think he could be anything other than a dog, the only good thing he has is ripped away from him, proving to him once again that he doesn't deserve anything good. Of course he's angry at the world.

Mostly, though, he's angry at himself. He failed. Just like he did in King's Landing. Yet it's so much worse this time. Why hadn't he followed her? Why did he sit in that damn tavern and drink for so fucking long when she was getting hauled off and taken by a bunch of sick bastards? Why did he make her promises he couldn't keep?

With a growl, he throws one of his empty tankards as hard as he can against the wall. It shatters, spraying ale over the floor. The innkeeper shoots him a worried glance, but Sandor knows he won't come over here. Not when the Hound is this angry. No one would dare.

"You look like shit, mate."

Sandor glares up at the idiot who, for some reason, is daring. The man is tall and lean with dark, unruly hair that matches the scruff on his face. He's grinning cheekily, one hand resting on the strap of what looks like a quiver.

"Fuck off," Sandor growls at the too-friendly archer and turns to drink heavily from the tankard he didn't throw.

"What's got you in such a good mood?" the man asks curiously.

Sandor's scowl is so dark that the archer's grin immediately slips.

"What part of fuck off doesn't make sense to you?" He leans across the table menacingly, the thick muscles in his arms straining against his shirt as he resists shoving his blade down the archer's throat. The smaller man swallows warily but doesn't move.

"It makes sense," he says. "Just know the look of a man done wrong by a woman. Thought I could buy you a drink."

Fury rages through Sandor at the archer's words. He slams his glove-covered hands on the table and pushes himself up to his full height. The other man visibly pales. He looks up at Sandor who towers above him. The larger man scowls heavily and leans down so his ale-drenched breath hits the archer in the face.

"Fuck off. Now. Before I gut you."

The archer hesitates for just a moment. Then, as quickly as he can, pulls out a coin purse and tosses it on Sandor's table.

"Must be one hell of a woman," he quips before scurrying away, just barely missing the blow Sandor sends at his head.

"You cunt!" the large, inebriated man bellows as the archer slips out the door. The few people in the tavern stare at him. His lip curls as he glares at them all. He snarls as he swipes his tankard off the table and falls back into his seat with enough force to make the wood screech against the stone floor.

He drinks the rest of the ale in one gulp. The pain in his chest is back full-force. He curses that fucking archer for making him think of her all over again. For making him remember how much of a failure he is.

He heard word three days ago that the Brotherhood was going to be here, or at least near here. He wasn't sure why they'd want to come to this shit village, but he didn't question it. The moment he heard where they might be, he rode madly through the night, making the trip in half the time it was supposed to. That was two days ago. He'd been here since then, searching the town and the land near it, but there was nothing. No sign of the Brotherhood and no sign of Linette.

With a growl, Sandor snatches the archer's coin purse off the table. It reminds him of her: Long, silver-blonde curls invade his mind. Her storming eyes and the feeling of her satin lips against his deformed skin. Pain flares in his chest. His hand curls around the coin purse so he doesn't have to look at it anymore. He's suddenly all too aware of the necklace in his pocket. It feels like it's burning him.

"Fuck it all," he snarls and stands, teeth clenched and hands fisted.

He's going to need a hell of a lot more ale.