Outside the inn on a weathered gibbet, a woman's bones were twisting and rattling at every gust of wind.
I know this inn, Arya told herself. There hadn't been a gibbet outside the door when she had slept here with her sister Sansa under the watchful eye of Septa Mordane, though. "We don't want to go in," Arya decided suddenly, "there might be ghosts."
"Maybe. Or someone who will buy your scrawny arse. Sandor swung down from the saddle." You know how long it's been since I had a cup of wine? Besides, we need to learn who holds the ruby ford, and whether Frey's men have made it this far yet. Maybe your brother's men are still holding the Kingsroad, maybe not. Stay with the horses if you want, it's no hair off my arse."
"What if they know you?" Sandor no longer troubled to hide his face. He no longer seemed to care who knew him. "What if there are Frey men inside, or Lannisters? They might want to take you captive."
"Let them try." He loosened his longsword in its scabbard, and pushed through the door.
Arya would never have a better chance to escape.
She could ride off on Craven and take Stranger too. But where could she go next? Ever since they fled the Twins, the Hound had been dragging Arya south, heading… somewhere. She had once asked the hound where they were going, but all she got was mockery in return. Perhaps they were going to the Eyrie, to ransom her to Aunt Lysa. Or maybe to Riverrun where the Blackfish was. Arya had been trying to make for Riverrun ever since she escaped from Harrenhal. And every time she tried, things somehow got worse. Now Bran's dead, and Rickon, and so are Robb and Mother.
Who was Arya? A wolf without a pack. A pup without a den. A scared little girl with neither family nor friends. Hot Pie stayed behind at the Inn of the Kneeling Man. Gendry was made Ser Gendry, Knight of the Hollow Hill and one among the Brotherhood without Banners. All the Brotherhood wanted was to ransom her. So did the Hound. But Arya had no friends, no family, nowhere to go.
She chewed her lip. Then she led the horses to the stables, and went in after the Hound.
They know him. The silence told her that. But that wasn't the worst thing. She knew them too. Not the skinny innkeep, nor the women, nor the servant boy drinking by the hearth. But the others. The soldiers. She knew the soldiers.
"Looking for your brother, Sandor?" Polliver asked as he slid his hand out of the bodice of the girl on his lap.
"Looking for a cup of wine, innkeep. A flagon of red." Clegane grabbed a few copper coins and threw them on the floor. The servant boy ran over and started picking up the coins.
"I don't want trouble, ser," the innkeep's hands were trembling now.
"Then don't call me ser!" Sandor's mouth twitched. "Are you deaf, fool? I ordered wine."
"I'll get it right away, sir. Right away." The servant replied, handing a fistful of coins to the innkeep.
"I said don't call me sir, boy! And two cups! My squire's thirsty too!" Sandor shouted as the servant ran off back into the kitchen.
There are only three, Arya thought. Polliver only gave her a fleeting glance, the Tickler was now looking at her long and hard, while the squire was busy challenging Sandor to even give her any notice. "Is this the lost puppy Ser Gregor spoke of?" the squire asked the Tickler. "The one who piddled in the rushes and ran off?" Ignoring the Tickler's frantic warnings, the squire gave the Hound a stupid mocking grin. "Ser said his puppy brother tucked his tail between his legs when the battle got too warm at King's Landing. He said he ran off whimpering."
Polliver got onto his feet, shoving the girl off his lap. "The lad's drunk," he declared. "Can't hold his wine, that's all."
"Then he shouldn't drink." Sandor finally broke his silence as the servant returned. Sandor snatched the flagon from the boy's platter, downed the drink, then slammed the flagon back on the table. Half the wine was already gone. "Now you can pour. My coin is the only coin you're like to see today."
"We'll pay when we're done drinking," the soldier interjected.
"When you're done drinking you'll tickle the innkeep to see where he keeps his gold. Or perhaps his servants. The way you always do." The innkeep was nowhere to be seen by now, the locals were gone, and the girls were now filing out of the room. Only the servant remained by Arya and Sandor's side and appeared to have little intention of moving. The boy's eyepatch suggested that he might have seen more than his fair share of fighting, and Sandor's words did little to cow him.
"If you're looking for Ser, you come too late. Our host was ambushed near the Trident days ago by the Northmen, and they used spells, and killed nearly all of our men before you can blink your eye. Ser himself was killed by a one-eyed boy wielding…" Polliver's eyes opened wide as he stared at the boy, fear creeping into his face. "You."
The Tickler reached behind his back.
"Yes, me." The servant flipped over the table, sending several beverages flying towards the three soldiers. The Tickler finally pulled out a knife and threw it across the room, piercing the table. Then another, barely scratching the boy before crashing into the ground. A small sliver of blood streaked from the boy's little finger. Sandor was now pressing forwards with his longsword, parrying one of Polliver's cuts. The squire's sword was also out of his scabbard. He advanced towards the servant, drawn sword in hand.
Arya crept behind the boy and picked up the knife on the ground.
"Go fuck yourself," the servant boy shouted, yanking out the knife in the table and throwing it at the squire with all his strength. The blade didn't even come close, but the boy then pulled out a small black handle and pointed it at the squire. There was a stiff crack and a small puff of white smoke. The squire's eyes suddenly got big, and he crumpled to the ground screaming, clutching at a patch of red now spreading on his thigh. Polliver fell next, his steel dance with Sandor rudely interrupted by the small hole on his forehead.
The Tickler was creeping around the boy's right side, never taking his sight off the boy striding around the room. Arya could smell his fear. The boy would spin around any moment now and strike down the Tickler with his strange weapon. It only made it easier for Arya to step up behind the Tickler and stab him.
"Is there gold hidden in the village?" Arya shouted, driving the knife up the Tickler's back. "Is there silver? Gems? Is there food? Where is Lord Beric? Where did he go? How many men were with him? How many knights? How many bowmen? How many, how many, how many, how many, how many, how many? Is there gold in the village?" She stabbed every time she asked a question, and The Tickler screamed, until he could scream no more.
"Mercy," the squire squealed, as the servant picked up a large knife and pushed it straight through the Tickler's eye socket. "Please don't kill me. Mother have mercy."
The Hound was about to say something when the servant tore a strip off Polliver's tunic. "This one might live," the boy said as he closely wrapped the strip of cloth around the squire's wound, then turned towards the innkeep finally emerging from his hiding. "Please take care of him, Mr. Heddle. If he lives, he might be able to work for you for a while after he recovers, as I won't be working here any longer. I'll be leaving tomorrow with some of the other guests." Taking off his ring, the boy wrapped the strip of cloth firmly around the squire's injured thigh before tying it. Even from afar, Arya could see Manderly's mermaid etched onto the metal ring.
"One of Manderly's men?" Sandor asked when the innkeep led the squire away. "Has Wyman grown so desperate that he has little boys in his host? How many summers have you seen, child? Ten? Eleven?"
"I'm twelve years old, if that's what you're asking," the boy replied. "And I'm not one of Manderly's soldiers. I borrowed Wylis's ring to let survivors of the Red Wedding know that I'm an ally." He went back to Polliver's corpse and took his sword. Arya's eyes widened. The slender blade fit perfectly in Carl's hand - and hers.
"Hey! That sword's mine." Arya half-shouted. "They robbed Needle from me -"
"Sure, take it." The boy offered Needle's hilt to Arya. "This is a nice sword, but I'll just grab another one. I'm Karl, by the way."
"Thanks." Arya took the sword. It's good to have Needle back.
"I'm Sandor Clegane. This is…" The Hound frowned.
It was then that Arya decided to risk it, once and for all. "Arya Stark of Winterfell, sister of the late King Robb Stark." she blurted out. Her left hand tightly gripped Needle. Karl's right knuckles had also turned white holding onto his metal handle.
Karl suddenly dashed out of the room. He was back moments later, holding the half-burnt flag that she snatched from the Twins before the Hound carried her away. "I believe this is yours. Raynald was able to pick it up when you dropped it during the chaos. And these too," Karl chattered excitedly as a ragged line of men stumbled down the stairs behind him.
The dozen or so men formed up under a young chestnut-haired knight. Several still had clothes streaked with dirt and grime. More had notched swords, fraying bowstrings, or blunted spears. All of them were wearing at least one bandage. "My lady," the knight knelt, presenting the hilt of his blade. "My sword is yours. We will fight for you under this flag, just as we did for your brother."
"Rise, good Ser, and dismiss your men back to their rooms. We four shall talk," the Hound ordered.
"You do not come from the Seven Kingdoms, boy." He asked after the rest of the men had left the room, fixating his gaze on Karl. "You draw your a's and round your r's, wear this strange felt hat and blue rough-cloth breeches. And I've never seen a weapon anything like yours. Where are you truly from? Braavos? Qarth?" The Hound snorted.
"I'm from Alexandria. It's now in the middle of the God's Eye." Karl suddenly paused, appearing to choose his next words carefully. "And it kinda seems that we just… appeared here from another world."
Sandor nearly choked on his drink. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."
"More ridiculous than this?" Karl retorted, placing his weapon on the table. "If you don't believe me, you're welcome to follow us to Alexandria and see for yourself. There are loads of people with weapons like mine who can easily defend the town, and we got food and water. Unless you have anywhere better to go, of course. As for how we got here… we're just as clueless as you are."
"It's not as if we have anything better to do," Arya suggested, looking at the Hound with her puppy eyes until he nodded. "Can I have a look at your…?" She gestured towards the boy's strange weapon.
"Sure. This is a gun. I pull the trigger here, a hammer inside strikes a special powder and makes it explode. This pushes a small bit of metal out of this tube - the barrel - and hits roughly where I'm aiming at. There are different types of guns, but ones like these are called pistols," the boy explained. "It's very useful on horseback too. Sandor, your brother the Mountain that Rides, well he ain't riding no more. We battled some Lannisters a few days ago. I shot him when he tried to ride me down."
"Good riddance," Sandor muttered under his breath.
Raynold Westerling tried to swallow his smile. "I'm sure he will be greatly missed by the Seven Kingdoms. Though the Lannisters will mourn his loss, that's for sure. But only the Seven know what celebrations the Dornish would be throwing in Sunspear when news finally reaches there."
"I know Mother's dead, but was there any chance Robb survived?" Arya asked, a glimmer of hope twinkling in her eyes.
"No," Raynold replied sadly. "He was in the dining hall with your mother. None of our men who went in there ever walked out again."
"Oh."
The Hound looked at her for a while, gently shaking his head as he did so.
"I lost my mother too, and many, many others along the way." Karl said quietly. Then he awkwardly tapped her shoulder. The sun was fast setting now. Excusing himself, Karl stood up and started lighting candles around the room before grabbing a shovel. The boy staggered as he dragged Polliver and The Tickler's bodies out the door.
"Can we trust him?" Sandor asked when Karl was out of earshot.
"Yes," Raynold stated. "Some of us would have been caught or died if it weren't for him. Got us all some decent horses too. It isn't as if the Lannisters or Freys would be needing them any longer."
Sandor shrugged. "Why is he helping us anyway?"
"I don't know. But do you think Lord Tywin would leave them alone once the Lannisters find Alexandria? Karl said there are only a few thousand Alexandrians. And if a boy only twelve summers old was sent on this task alone, how many soldiers do they have? They might need our help as much as we need theirs." Raynold was whispering now, furtively glancing at the locals now returning to the dim room as if nothing had happened. "We'll sneak out a few of their guns when we get to Alexandria. Perhaps ship them to White Harbor where the Stark direwolf still flies. We might be able to build some of our own."
Arya nodded. Even after less than half a day, Karl was already becoming a good friend, and the Alexandrians would be useful allies. But House Stark and the North came first.
Karl returned with a strange bag. "Rooms are full, so we'll need to spend the night here," he declared as he pulled on a metal cuff and opened the bag. Then he laid it on the floor. "This is a sleeping bag. Arya, you can lie here and rest your head on this end. Then we close the bag back up. It's the bag I used when I was getting here, so there's a bit of dirt on it. Sorry."
"What will you sleep in?" The Hound asked.
"I'll rest myself against this chair and cover the entrance." Carl tapped his knuckles against the pistol holster. "I can kill fifteen soldiers without reloading. If more soldiers come, I have enough bullets in here to kill a small army."
The Hound drew his sword. "Ser Raynold and I can take watch. Go to sleep. We'll wake you up if we need help."
Despite Karl's insistence, his light snores soon followed Arya's. The Hound gently draped his cloak over the exhausted boy, and stared into the seemingly everlasting night.
They left the inn around noon the next day. Sandor at the front, Karl and Arya riding behind, then Raynold and his men. As they travelled down the Kingsroad, Karl regaled Arya with stories of his world's many wonders along the way, of horseless carriages on well-paved roads, of massive fires that people set off to celebrate every fourth day of the seventh moon. Of the ever-present lightning that lit up torches, and the moving pictures, with sound, that were so real one might as well have been right there. And he promised that he would show her all of that, or at least all that remained.
Most of that's gone, Karl explained sadly. His world had all but fallen apart, struck by some cataclysm, a plague that ran through the population and caused the dead to rise again, or so the story went. Then a life on the run, one of hunger and fear, not knowing if he would survive to see the next sunrise, or to face death and worse. And now they were here, in a new world, or so the story went. It was clear that something happened, and that the Alexandrians came from somewhere far, far away, but Karl's story sounded just as fantastical as the tales Old Nan told her so many years ago.
They crossed the Ruby Ford that afternoon. Under the clear skies and wispy clouds, Karl and Arya waded into the river, trying their luck as they combed for the many rubies that fell from Prince Rhaegar's shattered chestplate. The gemstones would have been washed away long ago, the Hound pointed out as he watched from the northern bank, but there was no point in spoiling the children's fun. Arya had been forced to grow up far too quickly as the Seven Kingdoms descended into chaos. Karl's missing eye did not suggest a happy childhood either.
The two waded back onto shore after a fruitless search. "Time for my dance," Arya shouted, picking up a stout tree branch as if it were a sword, the branch twirling in her nimble hands.
Karl looked at her quizzically.
"This is the Water Dance, the bravos' dance." Echoing the words of her former 'dancing teacher', Arya picked up a branch of similar size and tossed it towards Karl. "I've been practicing it for a long time, but I've rarely had a dance partner. Do you want to dance with me?"
"Sure," Karl said, hesitantly picked up the branch. Arya may be a girl, but she was slightly taller than him and quite clearly adept at her dancing.
Arya's patience was reaching its end. "What are you waiting for? Are you scared of a little girl without your pistol?"
Thus the dance began. It was as lopsided as it was savage, for Karl clumsily struggled to keep up with Arya's pace. "Hey! No fair!" he cried out, clutching at his hip as the thick branch once again bounced off Karl's right flank with a mighty thwack. The small host cheered, ignoring Karl's wide eyes glaring at them.
"The boy has some strength, aye," Sandor suggested as he passed a piece of bread to Raynold, who gulped it down greedily. "But the Alexandrians might not fight as well when it comes to clashing cold steel."
"Mayhaps," Raynold said as he gulped down yet another loaf of bread. "The boy needs training, that's for sure. Any older, and he would only be fit to be a septon."
"When was life ever fair?" Arya sang as she deftly parried Karl's next thrust with almost contemptuous ease before slashing at his forearm. The stinging blow knocked the branch straight out of the boy's hands.
Karl gingerly rolled back his sleeve. The length of his forearm was now striped with an angry red welt. "Then I won't play fair either." He picked up the branch with his left hand and sprinted. He winced as three sudden spikes of pain flared on his sides, left - right – left, yet Arya's water dancing barely slowed Karl down as he barreled straight into her with a resounding crash. Then it was a flurry of fists, and a resounding splash as the two tumbled into the Trident, still gripping onto each other.
Arya crawled back onto shore moments after Karl did. "You cheated," she spluttered, coughing out a mouthful of water. Her clothes were torn in several places by bleeding gashes, and painful bruises marked her limbs, yet Karl was evidently the worse for wear. And he would have to sleep on the cold, hard ground too, having lent his sleeping bag to Arya.
"When was life ever fair?" Karl replied, limping up the gentle slope.
To this Arya made no answer except to laugh, and Karl laughed with her.
The Hound decided that they should set up camp on the Trident's southern bank, for the sun was setting soon, and it was Arya's turn to tell how her world fell apart. She began weaving a tale of bravery and betrayal, a little girl's journey to survive a continent embroiled in war. Of life in Winterfell before that, a Winterfell with Father and Mother and Robb and Sansa and Bran and Rickon. And the bastard, of course, Jon Snow whom Arya so dearly loved. A life that surely was completely and utterly alien to Karl, as Karl's life was to hers, yet no less sweet.
Soon the sun rose, and set, and rose, and set again, as Karl and Arya once again exchanged greetings in the morning, blows in the afternoon, and stories at night. When the sun rose for the third time since leaving the inn, the company of travellers finally saw a shimmering lake, stretching beyond sight, as they crested that last gentle hill.
Riding past Harrenhal, Arya's heart leapt as she spotted the Stark direwolf flying above the castle, triumphant and unblemished. Yet beside it was another banner of red and white stripes, a blue square with a constellation of white stars at the corner.