Lenna LI

Her father had an ancient strongbox that he kept in his library, perhaps dating back to the Manderlys and their flight north from the Reach. It was a heavy, dark old thing, taking up nearly half of a wall. She'd be fascinated with it as a child, spending hours studying and tracing the intricate interlacings of the locking mechanism beneath its lid. She had always felt that she would never be able to make such a thing, so complicated and labyrinthine that once locked it was impenetrable. But the key, once twisted, would set the various levers and rods into motion and the mechanism would release, the lid opening easily. She loved turning the key, watching the incomprehensible and impossible rendered effortless and ordered.

You are not the heir to White Harbor yet.

"Only time will tell, my lord," she said, her hands hidden in her skirts to hide her trembling, sure that she had just been handed some sort of key. Terrified of what she might find if she used it.

Without another word, Lenna dropped a curtsey to Walder Frey and turned her back on him, hoping that she had said enough, hoping she hadn't said too much. She wanted to curse him, to rage at him, to kill him. The dagger was there in her boot, and he was an old man, but she schooled herself into that silence, that grey middling that had kept her safe thus far.

She stumbled down the passageway fully convinced she'd be sick with every footfall. So engrossed with her thoughts, she almost ran into her brother. He caught her by the shoulders and she was surprised she didn't faint, barely able to lift her chin to meet his eye.

"Where have you been?" Wendel asked, a bead of sweat rolling down his face. He was puffing down the passageway in her direction, his cheeks glowing like cherries. "I've been looking for you."

"I was summoned," she replied lowly. "Lord Walder-"

"Not here," he hissed, eyes casting around for eavesdroppers. "Get your things in order. The wheelhouse is ready, and I want to be gone from here as soon as may be."

She nodded weakly, passing by him into her rooms. It was not a difficult task, and she went about her business without thinking, her mind far too engaged in picking apart the last hour. All that had been brought in for her the night before was a valise, which some maid or other had packed already. She hailed a girl in the hall while she threw a cloak around her shoulders. It was the same gray-blue as her old one, though it had been made up new for her in Riverrun. Sandor's black and yellow was buried at the bottom of her trunks stored on the cart.

"We are leaving now," she said coolly. "Could you bring that, then inform Lord Walder?"

The girl took the satchel from her with a bob, then spirited herself off down the hallway without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

Lenna stood for a moment, trying to remember her way out of the bloody Keep, interrupted from her increasingly frantic thoughts by a calm voice.

"So you are going then."

Perwyn Frey had come up behind her on soft-soled boots. He was standing with his hands behind his back, looking at her from down the long length of his nose. The expression in his eyes was doleful, regretful, and Lenna almost felt sorry for him. At least, she might have if she'd had the time.

"My brother says we are to leave immediately," she managed, straightening her cloak around her shoulders and adjusting the hood.

"I had rather hoped you'd stay," he said with a stiff smile. "But I know that it is not to be."

"Unfortunately," she replied, all of her effort focused on dissembling and seeming regretful even as she desperately wanted to be away from him. "My father wants me home as soon as may be."

"Yes," he said heavily. "Your father. Of course."

She looked at him square in the face. "We both know it is not only my father who wishes me to hasten to White Harbor."

It was a gamble, and she knew it to be one. Perwyn was not foolhardy enough to speak, but he did incline his head and rock forward on his toes in acknowledgement. Her suspicions confirmed, Lenna felt a cold, slithery rope of dread around her neck, but she found it in herself to smile. Perwyn Frey did not know her well enough to doubt her, or to think she was insincere, and she had spent too many years with Cersei Lannister to fail in fooling a Frey.

"I did want to dance with you again," he said, that same stunned looked in his face as before. "But it isn't to be."

"Not this time," she replied, and he smiled again.

"Perhaps the next-" he started, but then he shut his mouth and turned his head. "Please. Allow me to see you out. Your brother will be waiting." She nodded, making herself take his arm when it was offered. She almost shuddered at the thought of standing beside him like this all the rest of her life. "He was huffing and puffing down the hall just a few moments ago."

She smiled, making a mad decision. "Yes, always in a rush, is Wendel."

"You are fond of him." There was surprise in his voice that took her rather aback. Instead of mimicking that confusion, she instead decided to play the doting sister. It was easy enough, and perhaps, just maybe, it would help Wendel in the future if this man and his ilk meant him harm.

"Very fond," she replied. "He was always kind to me, even though we are so far apart in age." She was beginning to prattle, but when she glanced up at the Frey, he was looking at her in avid attention, like a dog in a trash heap. "He's very funny, my brother, witty, and so good natured. A little absent minded. He's always in such a hurry."

"He has a good reputation on the battlefield," Perwyn said by way of protest.

"Aye," she replied. "I didn't say he wasn't a good fighter, only that he can be forgetful, a bit bird-brained. No, I have always heard tell he is a very good fighter."

"But you condemn fighting," he said flatly. "Bloodshed."

"Of course." She made herself laugh airily. "Who wants fighting for the sake of fighting? A tourney is one thing, but real war? I believe so many conflicts could be solved if people would just sit down and speak civilly with each other."

"This conflict?" he prompted.

"Even this one," she said, and it was the truth. "If only people had talked instead of beginning to send armies this way and that, perhaps we could have been spared a lot of pain."

"You'd still be in King's Landing," he said bleakly. "Far away from home."

"King's Landing was my home," she replied. "In so much as it is where I lived and was useful. People I loved were there."

"The princess."

"And the queen. And Lady Sansa."

"Sansa Stark?" Consternation was written on his face in the lines between his brows, thin but deep, like the two halves of his father's Keep.

"Indeed," she said, turning to look at him in the face. "I tutored her and Princess Myrcella together. She was just as bright and pretty as a copper star. I looked after both of them."

"And she was punished," he said. "Most cruelly, for a child."

"Aye," Lenna said, not narrowing her eyes though she wished to. "As was I. And I was not a child."

His adam's apple bobbed in his thin neck and he nodded, his face again dark with some unspoken trouble.

"My apologies," he said quietly, laying a hand over hers where it lay in his elbow. "I did not mean-"

"Think nothing of it," she replied brightly, drawing her hand away. They had reached the courtyard and Wendel was there, holding the reins of her palfrey. Walder Frey stood in much the same posture as he had the night before, hands clasped behind his back. He was looking at her and Perwyn with unconcealed pleasure.

"I hope to see you again soon, my lady," Perwyn said.

Lenna faced him, smiling by halves. "Yes," was all she managed to stay in return. He did wish to see her again, there was no point in denying him, and no disservice to herself in agreeing with his statement. He would hear in it what he wished to.

They all do.

She approached Lord Walder and made a low curtsey despite standing in a puddle on his cobblestones.

"Safe travels and all that," Walder said, his thin lips twisting up in a smirk, taking her hand when she forced herself to offer it. His old hands were cold, the thin skin not unlike that of a lamprey, clammy and strangely delicate.

She nodded to him. "Thank you for hospitality, my lord. And our best wishes to your daughter. She will make a fine bride."

"She'll need your good wishes." His eyes gleamed as he looked back at her, dipping his shoulders and head sharply in a decrepit bow. "Mind the rains, my lady."

Her entrails fizzled at the phrasing, but she allowed a groom to help her into her saddle though she did not need it, and she was grateful when she was able to rein her horse around and set her back to the Freys and their Keep.

It took the better part of half an hour to cross over the bridge and make their way back on to the road again. When they could no longer see the wretched place, she pulled her horse even with Wendel's so close that they were nuzzling each other, their noses brushing in the cool air.

"Wendel, what did you talk about last night?" she asked, turning her face so that she could hear despite the folds of the cloak, but keeping her eyes on her horse's ears.

"You," he said flatly. "All he wanted to discuss was you. He asked all manner of questions."

"What kinds of questions?" she demanded. "Wendel, please tell me you-"

"I did the best I could," he replied hotly. "I know better than to tell him that you're on our side, because I have the strangest feeling that he is not."

Lenna took in a shuddering breath. "I fear you are right."

"He wanted to know about your time in King's Landing, how you were brought to Riverrun. By whom."

"Did you tell him?"

"That it was the Hound? Of course," he replied. "He'd have known it for a falsehood if I did not."

She furrowed her brow, her mouth turned down. "And what else?"

"He is going to bid for your hand. For that son of his."

Lenna nodded. "He told me as much this morning."

"Father will never consent," he said brusquely. "The idea itself is ludicrous even if it was possible."

"I don't think he gives a fig if father consents or not," she replied blandly. "I don't think he sees father as an obstacle, not in the long run."

"What do you mean?"

"What was the last thing he said to us just now, Wendel?"

"What, the remark about the weather? 'Mind the rains' wasn't it?"

She turned her eyes to her brother then, and saw the look of growing realization as it broke across his swarthy face.

"Fucking hells," he said quietly. "What is going on?"

"I think, brother, that you will need to be late to that wedding. And we need to reach father as soon as may be. Walder Frey is plotting with Tywin Lannister, and I fear for the King. I fear for everyone who will be present at that celebration."

"He is supposed to be King Robb's man," Wendel said, his face that of an angry bulldog.

"He is," Lenna agreed, "but I think Walder Frey is his own man, first and foremost. He sees an opportunity, and he intends to sieze it. I think he even fancies himself a bit noble by bidding for me on Perwyn's behalf. To save me."

"From what?" Wendel scoffed.

"From Gregor Clegane," she said flatly. "And I'm half inclined to think that Tywin would humor him, if it delivers him White Harbor and the Twins."

"And the Dreadfort," Wendel said lowly.

"Bolton?" Lenna said. "Why am I not surprised."

"No more than I am," Wendel said.

"How do you know?"

"I'm no fool," Wendel spat. "Though he might think I am. There was a raven delivered to him last night. He took one look at the seal and sent me packing. I suppose he thought I didn't see it, but there's no mistaking a flayed man."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Lenna demanded. "That band of men that met us on the road-"

"What of them?"

"They were Boltons. Something seemed off, but their leader-"

"Fucking Grag Locke? You ran into Grag Locke on the road and didn't tell me?"

"I killed Grag Locke," Lenna said lowly. Wendel looked at her, openly flabbergasted. "Locke said that they were sent by you."

Wendel reined his horse up short, making the animal stop in the middle of the road.

"Lenna," he said, clenching his eyes shut. He'd gone a peculiar shade of greenish pink since she'd let slip that it was Grag Locke's throat she'd slit, and his hands were gripping his reins so tight she thought his knuckles might burst through his skin. "It was a lie. We did not send Grag Locke hunting for you. I would never consent to that man being sent after you."

"He was our kinsman," she said dully, the shame and the fear threatening to make her ill.

"Perhaps," Wendel said lowly, "but only by the barest of blood ties. He was Bolton's man through and through. Took joy in his work, if you get my meaning. I remember that Grandmother more or less had him attainted, not that there was much for her to keep from him. A schemer, a climber, and willing to do whatever he had to. I would never send the likes of him looking for you. Neither would King Robb."

"He was never looking for me on your behalf," she said plainly. "There were no search parties from Riverrun?"

Wendel shook his head. "How could there have been, sister? We got word nearly a week after the Blackwater, just a message from Cersei saying that Clegane had stolen you. She never indicated which direction he had taken you, and we wouldn't have known. I only knew that I was relieved to hear you were with him, nothing more."

Lenna took a moment to turn this over in her mind, endeavoring to push away the hurt that came from knowing that her family, her people, had made no effort to recover her, trying to hear him when he said there was no way for such a thing to have been done anyway. He spoke sense. But if he spoke sense-

"We must get a message to the King as quickly as possible, Wendel," she whispered harshly. "He cannot go to that wedding. He cannot."

Wendel nodded. "There will be an inn when we reach the Kingsroad. Three days, two if we ride hard. Do you think you are able, sister?"

She looked at him puzzled. "Why wouldn't I be."

He took a deep breath, looking away from her. "No reason. We'll take a guard or two, the wheelhouse can follow behind."

She nodded, and within fifteen minutes, they were speeding over the downs.

Sandor LI

"Kill me," he indolently, his eyes still closed, "and you kill your brother, too."

The Stark girl stood motionless above him, the rock poised in her hands. He'd heard her get up, walking lightly as a wild thing about the little clearing where he'd made camp the night before. She'd slept like the dead, and so had he, but he'd been dozing since dawn had broken, the sky lightening to a leaden gray. He wasn't quite ready to begin again, further delayed when he heard the girl stirring, suspecting that she was going to try and escape.

He'd had to make himself not grin at her when he realized she was going to try and kill him.

Spunk. He couldn't help but admire it.

"I will tell Robb," she said, the rock still aloft.

"You have to find him first," he replied, shifting on the ground to look at her. He'd grown too used to featherbeds, his back and shoulders protesting the movement. "And you don't have the faintest idea how the fuck to get to the Twins. Not in time to make any difference."

She looked back at him blankly and he sighed, hoisting himself up and off the ground. He stretched and groaned, thinking he was perhaps getting too old to sleep on the ground like this all the time, thinking he'd have been more comfortable with Lenna curled up beside him.

Stop that, he warned himself, and he put the thought away.

They rode hard again, but there were times when he had to rest Stranger at a canter. He refused to stop at midday, but it did give him a chance to pull out an apple to chase off the worst of the hunger. Dondarrion had given them a day's worth of bread and cheese, but it was gone now, and without having been able to return to his own camp, his men likely slaughtered, he'd resorted to killing their suppers and foraging for whatever he could find: hard little pippin apples, handfuls of blackberries, and now that it was autumn, walnuts and hickory nuts that he cracked in his hands and offered the child who sat in front of him. She had enough sense to pick out the bitter and take only the meat, though he would have enjoyed watching her splutter. The girl didn't like taking what he offered her, but he could hear her little stomach growling like a wolf cub.

"Sulk all you want," he said when she glumly took an apple from him. She bit into it, her nose wrinkling at the almost bitter sourness of the hard flesh. "Truth is, you don't want to be alone out here, girl. Someone worse than me would find you."

"There's no one worse than you," she muttered waspishly.

He smirked at the attempt at insult. She had bite, and he liked her for it. He almost found her constant jibes enjoyable. It wasn't often he met someone as hardbitten as he was, even if she was still a cub and in need of honing her banter.

"You've never met my brother. He once killed a man for snoring," he said, not at all disappointed when the girl's scowl deepened. Her sneer was almost as permanent a feature on her pinched little face as his was. "Plenty worse than me," he continued seriously. "Men who like to beat little girls, men who like to rape them. Saved your sister from some of them."

It was not a good memory, and he regretted that it had sprung to mind, just as he regretted speaking of it. She turned and looked in his direction slowly, her eyes on his breastplate and not his face.

"You're lying." Her voice was the color of steel, dull and lusterless and hard.

"Ask her, if you ever see her again," he rasped. He honestly hoped he would never cross paths with Sansa Stark. The girl brought nothing but trouble, but he hoped for this little one's sake that they would meet again. "Ask her who came back for her when the mob had her on her back." He had the feeling he should stop, the child was too young to hear such things, but he figured she'd heard and seen worse already. "They'd have had her every which way and left her there with her throat cut open if it hadn't be for me and-" He stopped himself abruptly, his throat suddenly dry.

"And?" she said peevishly. "And who?"

"Never you mind," he replied, biting into his own apple, losing the desire to speak anymore. The month apart had felt like a decade. Every time he thought of her felt like a hook ripping into his flesh, the queer ache in his breast intensifying. So he did his best not to think of her at all. If he didn't think of her, he could almost forget about it. Almost.

He cleared his throat against the lump there. "That's the Red Fork," he said, nodding to the river ahead of them.

"Why are you taking me there?" she asked suddenly. "Why are you doing any of this?"

He took a deep breath and swallowed the apple, seeds and all. The little wolf didn't know what her questions were doing to him, and it was plain to him that he was in for a little more torment.

"I swore an oath," he replied quietly. It weighed heavily on him, almost like a physical weight, an anvil shoved against his sternum. He sometimes found it difficult to breathe, especially those times when all he wanted was to turn tail and leave this mess behind. To go to her.

"You don't take oaths," she said, voice full of snark and disbelief. "But you swore one to my brother?"

"No. Not to your brother." He wished he'd never opened his mouth. It wasn't that he was afraid of telling the girl, not really. Something else made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, the great yawning ache in his chest that seemed to throb every time he unwittingly thought about her, spoke about her. Something had been torn out of him when he left her in Riverrun, and he was quite sure the wound would never heal properly. If he never saw her again, he was quite sure that he would die of it, bleeding from its gaping hole inwardly and endlessly.

"Who then?" she asked, confusion in her pinched face.

"Someone better than the lot of them," he replied stonily, knowing that his tone was harsher to the child's ears than it should be. "Let's just try and make it to the Twins before your uncle's wedding, eh? I liked you better when you wouldn't talk."

He only half meant it. The child amused him. He'd not taken much notice of her in King's Landing. She avoided court functions, unlike her pretty sister, and as such, he'd seen little of her except for the incident on the Kingsroad when Lord Eddard was coming to the capital to become the Hand of the King. He'd thought she was scrappy, had felt sorry for her at Darry. She wailed against injustice, had a peculiarly keen sense of right and wrong. He knew what it felt like to carry that burden. He smelled unfairness as acutely as his namesake, though he'd long ago accepted that there was little enough he could do about it. He'd done the opposite of this little one. Instead of fighting it, he'd embraced it.

The world wasn't fair, and those who were honorable died just as ingloriously as the wicked, and, it seemed to him, twice as often. This child had seen her share of cruelty well before her time, just as he had, and she was already hardened by it. Where she might bewail the little girl's lost innocence, he was ferociously glad. The little wolf would need every scrap of resilience.

She, he thought, Lenna's face swimming in his mind, smiling at him. He swallowed. He couldn't even bring himself to think her name.

They rode for nearly two weeks at a brisk pace, Stranger carrying them forty or so miles a day. The warhorse could do such when it was just Sandor, and the little slip of a Stark was barely a burden. Sandor reckoned they were still a few days ride out when they came upon a man and cart with a broken axle in the road. He reined Stranger in and leaned forward over the child's shoulder so his mouth was at her ear.

"I make the decisions," he said quietly. "I know who you are, but he might know who I am, or figure it out. You stay quiet. If he asks, I'm your father. Got it?"

She nodded, her breathing coming high and through her nose.

Sandor grunted, swinging to the ground and shoving the horse's reins into the girl's grip when she slid down his flank. He gestured for her to stay put.

It was only an old man, he saw, gray-bearded, and too aged to be accomplishing this errand alone. The cart he was driving stank of salt pork, and some had spilled into the roadway in the upset.

"Need a hand?" he asked, and the old man looked up at him. Sandor saw no recognition in his face, and for that he was glad.

"More like eight," he wheezed, sitting up in the mud. Sandor wedged his hands under the cart and lifted it, just long enough for the man to right his wheel. The rest of the repair would be straightforward. However, the man was looking at him in open amazement when he set the cart back down. Stupid. Any man would talk about such a thing, never mind his fucking face. The two of them together meant trouble, and Sandor had stirred it up himself. He grimaced.

"That should get you on your way," Sandor said briefly. He waited until the old man turned his back, then drew out his dagger, raising it to bring the hilt down on the back of his skull.

"Papa," the girl called, and he hesitated, turning back to the Stark child.

"What do you want?" he asked, tucking the dagger behind his back.

"We haven't had any meat for weeks," she said, gray eyes big in feigned hunger. Horseshit, he thought, you demolished an entire partridge by yourself last night. He'd scarcely ever met someone with an appetite almost as big as his, Bronn maybe, but not some wisp of a child.

He huffed, striding back to her as he tucked the knife in his belt. "What do you think you're on about?" he asked lowly, leaning down to her.

"You want to kill him," she said lowly. "There's no reason to kill him. Let's just be on our way."

"Dead rats don't squeak, little wolf," he said gruffly.

"He's just an old man," she insisted. "Who does he have to tell? What would he even tell them?"

"That he saw me," Sandor ground out.

"So what?" Arya asked, her little face pinched. Sandor grunted, looking back at the man still fiddling with his axle. "Don't kill him. Please. Please don't."

"You're kind, little wolf," he said, refusing to look away from her glare. "Someday it will get you killed." She was defiant, little fists at her side. It was himself that she reminded him of now, it was her. He breathed out through his nose forcefully, teeth gritted together. "Fine," he replied laconically. "But you're going to eat the fucking pork." He made his way back to the old man, puttering away beneath his wagon. "My boy is hungry," he said, the words feeling strange in his mouth. "I have silver."

"I can spare a bit," the old man said, "but keep your silver. Take it in thanks for your help. Have to get this load to the Twins in time for Lord Edmure's wedding."

"When is that to be?" he asked as his ears perked up, trying to affect nonchalance as the man hacked off a portion of his cargo.

"Three days hence," he replied. "And it will take me until the very last moment to get there."

"Salt pork at a wedding feast?" Sandor asked. Even he knew better than to believe that the Starks would have such common fare at a celebration of that scale.

"Not for the highborns," the man scoffed with a smile. "For the armies."

"Armies," Sandor said flatly, ever nerve singing. "What armies?"

"King Robb's men, Lord Walder's, of course, and Lord Bolton's."

"Bolton brought his army?"

"S'what I was told," he replied. "And they'll be hungry. Soldiers will like a bit of salt pork to celebrate with their lords."

"Aye," he replied as casually as he could. "I guess they will. Are they already camped at the Twins?"

"On their way," he replied. "Ahead of me, I'll wager. Been on this road two days and haven't seen hide nor hair." He wrapped the pork in a piece of burlap and held it out to Sandor. "Thank you again. Safe travels."

"Same," Sandor managed to reply, making his way back to the child. He tossed the bundle into a saddlebag and then tossed her up into the saddle, swinging up behind her. "Keep quiet," he whispered, and the Stark girl did as she was bid.

He took Stranger off at gallop, the horse's powerful hooves throwing up clods of dirt behind them and leaving deep divots in the soil. Sandor turned the horse off the road again when he was sure they were far away enough from the man with the cart, turning westward.

"Where are we going?" the child asked, swiveling as best she could while still keeping her seat.

"The Twins," he replied, keeping his body hunched over hers.

"The road-"

"The road is dangerous," he replied. "Bolton men on the road will spell harm to us." He'd felt like his entrails had coiled up like a snake when the old man had said that the Bolton army was on the move. The army should be in Harrenhal, not marching north to the Twins. Sandor had his suspicions as to what that meant, but time was now absolutely imperative

He pushed the horse until he thought his old friend might drop from sheer exhaustion. Sweat had turned to froth on his flanks, and Sandor could feel his ribcage heaving against his legs. There was nothing for it but to stop, the horse sheltering under the trees as the two of them hunkered beneath a bush. The rain went on for hours, and with each roll of thunder, Sandor felt their time running away, just like the mud and water than coursed down the hillside and into the river.

He pulled the child up out of the muck when dawn came, both of them wet and miserable as they clambered onto Stranger's back. The child shivered against him, and he could hear the chatter of her teeth. It took them another day, their path swinging out and around the Twins before coming in from the north, away from the main road and above where he figured Bolton's army would be encamped. The last thing he wanted was for them to be spotted by a Frey or a Bolton. When they stopped, the two castles in clear view, Sandor had a good vantage point from which to observe.

Stretched below him were three armies surrounding the castle itself, just as he'd expected. The Freys were about the Keep in a protective ring, The Stark banners were to the north, and the army of Roose Bolton to the south camped around the road, the flayed man clearly seen even from the distance.

"They've fucking blocked the way out," he muttered. The child had been quiet for the last day, since they encountered the old man on the road. She hadn't sulked or lobbed insults at him, just slumped against his front silently.

"What's going to happen?" she asked quietly. For all her spunk and nerve, she was just a little girl after all.

"I don't know, little wolf," he replied. "But it's not good for us."

"What will you do?"

He took a deep breath. Save the child, he decided. "I'm going to leave you here." Her little body stiffened. "I'll be back for you. But I will not risk taking you into that camp until I know what's going on."

"My mother-"

"Is in that Keep, child," he said, pointing to the castle. "And what do you see outside of it?"

"Soldiers," she replied.

"Whose soldiers are they? You know your sigils, your colors."

"Frey soldiers."

"Right," he replied. "And those?"

The child shuddered. "Roose Bolton."

"Well done," he said, and the girl pouted at him. "And where is Roose Bolton supposed to be?"

The girl's back stiffened, her fingers digging into the smooth leath of the saddle until her fingertips were white, her filthy fingernails dark crescents.

"But he's Robb's bannerman," she exclaimed, her voice going high. "He wouldn't-"

"Wouldn't he, little wolf?" Sandor kept his voice soft. "I turned my back on my liege lord. And you yourself said he was plotting with Lord Tywin. Do you not think the two are connected? He has turned, and you know it."

"But you did the right thing," she barked, and he knew it cost her. His lip turned up. "You left that awful Joffrey and came to help my brother."

"I didn't come to help your brother, girl," he replied.

"Then why-"

"No time for that now, and never you mind," he spat. "Walder Frey would take any opportunity he could to have more. He doesn't have enough land for all of those children he's sired, and he's a little man. A petty man. See that great Keep, that bridge? He controls the river, but he's subject to the Tullys. Roose Bolton is supposed to be watching Harrenhal, protecting your brother's holdings to the south. Even if he came himself, why would he need his whole army with him? Lords don't usually bring their fighting men to little events like fucking weddings."

"Hound?" she said, her voice like a rustling of dead leaves.

"Hm?" he grunted, looking down at her from his height, surprised that she would try and call him by any name.

"Are they going to die?" He was reminded suddenly of how young, how little she was. The child was precocious and full of spleen, but she was still a child.

He could not put together an answer for her, at least not one that would comfort her. If he did, it would be a lie. "You stay here, do you understand me?"

She nodded, her head tilted downward but her eyes still meeting his. She looked like pup, all scared eyes and dropping shoulders.

He nodded back to her, handing Stranger's reins over.

"He knows you well enough by now," he said gruffly. "He won't bite you. Brush him for me. He deserves a good working over." He made sure she had the right equipment, pleased to see she knew what she was doing. The girl did not protest, and that made him wary.

"Do not move," he ordered gruffly. "Do not wander. Stay with the horse. I'll be back before nightfall."

She stared up at him, her shorn hair falling about her face. She reminded him so strongly of himself that for a moment he paused.

"Please," he said quietly. "Stay here and don't do anything foolish." She didn't reply. "Say 'yes, I understand,'" he prompted harshly.

"Yes," she replied in a whisper. "I understand."

Sandor nodded and sniffed, making his way through the wood and toward the Stark banners.

He startled a sentry pissing in the woods, the boy dancing in fright to see him emerge from the trees.

"I need to see the king," he said, and the boy tucked himself away in a hurry and warily led him into the camp. Sandor noted with dismay that Robb had brought the entirety of his force with him to the Twins. He wondered who was keeping Riverrun. There weren't as many Tully fish as there were other banners, but it still stirred worry in his gut to think that their stronghold was so undefended.

The boy led him through the camp, and would have led him straight through the Frey lines if Sandor hadn't stopped him.

"No," he said quickly, clapping the lad on the shoulder. "Is King Robb not here?"

"Aye," the boy replied. "In the Keep."

Sandor took a step back. "I'll not go in there," he said quietly. "Who is your commander?"

"Lord Tully."

"The one to be married?" He had about as much use for Edmure Tully as he did the flux.

"No, ser, Lord Brynden."

"Where is he?"

"In there, ser," the boy squeaked.

"Go to him, boy," Sandor said, drawing the lad close by the collar. "You know who I am?" The boy nodded, eyes wide as moons. "Tell Lord Brynden that I am here, but no one else is to know. Understood?"

"Aye, ser?"

"And stop with the fucking sers," he growled, shoving the boy back. "Go. Speed yourself back."

The boy returned over an hour later. In that time, Sandor had found ale and meat, scarfing down nearly a loaf of bread. He'd also procured a cloak, too short for him, but enough to hide his face, which was what he was most concerned with doing.

"You're supposed to be hunting your brother."

He was sitting on a rough stool still massacring his meat and bread when the boots of the Blackfish walked into his line of sight. Brynden Tully had a hunted look about him, no doubt brought on by Sandor's sudden appearance in his camp.

"You're supposed to be defending your castle," he replied through a mouth of bread.

"From whom?"

"That's why I'm here," Sandor growled. Tully straightened up and bid him follow with a tilt of his head.

"I'm quartered in the castle, but this will do," the Blackfish said, leading Sandor into a nearby tent. It was obviously some sort of command, and those inside scattered at his appearance amongst them. "Have a seat."

Sandor did not. "I've been riding for over a month," he said. "I'll stand."

"Out with it, damnit," Brynden bellowed. "Why have you come here, Clegane? You're supposed-"

"Something's wrong," he said quietly. "I'm not sure exactly what it is, my lord, but this marriage-"

"I know something's wrong," Tully replied, his eyes flashing. "I knew it as soon as I saw the Frey and Bolton armies ringing the Keep. It isn't the way of things, to put their men between us and our King. We are supposed to be on the same side, so why put in a line of defense?"

"And Bolton is blocking your way south," Sandor said. "I had to go twenty miles out of the way to avoid them. They've hedged you in. Even if you were to leave now, there is nowhere for you to go."

"Greyjoys to the north, Freys and Boltons to the south and east. I don't think they intend to let us leave here."

"No," Sandor replied. "I don't think that they do."

"To what purpose?" Brynden asked. "These men are our banners-"

"Walder Frey and Roose Bolton," Sandor ground out, as if the names themselves were explanatory. "I know Bolton for one has been playing both sides."

"How do you know that?" the Blackfish demanded, taking a step forward.

"I have an informant," Sandor replied quietly with a quirk of his lip. "I found the Brotherhood, and they gave me more than I asked for." Tully huffed in annoyance at his riddles. Sandor unwound his tongue. "Your niece's child."

"Sansa?" he breathed.

"The little one," he replied.

"Great gods," Bryden rasped. "Her mother must know. Where is she?"

"Hidden in the wood," Sandor replied. "I would not bring her here until I knew if it was safe."

Brynden closed his eyes, passed his hand across his face. "You acted rightly. It isn't. It isn't safe." He paced the length of the tent, his face looking as if it was carved from granite, deep lines of worry etched across it. "Edmure is a fool," he said quietly. "We have all been fools."

"Aye," Sandor said quietly. "I don't disagree."

"Men used to keep their honor." Brynden Tully's neck was strained, tendons standing out behind the aged skin. He was still a powerful man, a strong man, despite the steely hair and deeply chiseled furrows of his face. "There was a time when treachery like this would have been unheard of."

"No, my lord," Sandor answered him quietly, looking at him steadily. "There was never a time when men didn't grasp for more."

Tully was still, his hands clenching into fists by his side. "We had a raven from Wendel Manderly before we left Riverrun. He and the lady quartered here overnight on their way to White Harbor."

"You heard from her?" he asked, his heart dropping sharply into his boots and his throat going dry.

"Safe, as far as we can tell," Tully replied. "Wendel sent a raven as a warning, begging Robb to stay away."

"Then why have you come?" Sandor thundered. "Why-"

"The King...my niece...they did not feel we could lose the match."

"If Walder Frey is working with the Lannisters, the fucking marriage doesn't matter. He won't keep his banners in Robb Stark's armies. There will be no Stark armies. Roose Bolton-"

"I know," the Blackfish hissed. "I know all of it, Clegane. They won't listen to me."

"You are the Hand."

"And he is the King," Tully thundered back. "And just as thick-headed and obstinate as his father. As my niece."

"My lord," Sandor said, calling after the Blackfish's retreating back. "You must warn the King. Again. Tell him that I am here. Tell him I have his sister, but that he is in mortal danger."

He paused at the door to the tent. "I'll do what I can," he said over his shoulder. "I'll tell my niece that her child is here. Maybe that will make them listen."

"I'll make camp," Sandor said. "There's a clearing, quarter of a mile from here to the west."

"I'll send a runner," Brynden said. "If I do not, stay away. Keep the child safe."

Sandor made his way back to the wood, arriving at twilight with a parcel of food for the child. He dropped it in the sodden leaves to see Stranger tethered to a tree and the girl nowhere in sight. Panic seized him, and he cast about wildly in the clearing.

"Wolf girl," he shouted. "Arya Stark!"

He was nearly ready to run back to the camp when she appeared at the edge of the clearing.

"I'm here," she said, taking a step forward.

"Where the fuck were you?" he thundered, leaning over to look her in the face. "I told you to stay put."

"I did," she said, backing away from him, her cheeks going red in embarrassment. "I stayed here. I brushed Stranger, I just...I had to...to…"

He let out the breath that threatened to choke him, hands on his knees as he bent his head. He lowered himself into a crouch, running his fingers through his hair and rubbing his eyes.

"Aye, little wolf," he said at last, the child still standing straight and motionless as a blade plunged into the earth.

"Can I see my mother?" she asked. "Where is she?"

"I spoke with your uncle, Lord Brynden. He will go to your mother. We will wait here until he sends word. I brought you something to eat."

The girl was on the bag in an instant, cramming the bread and cheese into her mouth as if she had not been fed in weeks. She hadn't been, he supposed. Not properly.

He built a fire, the child huddling close to it, hugging her legs tightly. Propping himself up against the trunk of a nearby tree, Sandor dozed off as they waited.

He was awoken sometime later by the sounds of crashing through the underbrush. His blade was in his hand and he was on his feet before he was even truly awake, astonished to see men streaming through the trees as fast as they could, fully armored. It looked like a retreat from battle, though he heard none of the din.

Arya Stark was nowhere to be seen.

He seized a man as he passed close by, gripping the man by his mail bunched in his fist.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

"The Hand has sent us away. We are to scatter while the nobles are at their wedding feast," the soldier said, quailing under Sandor's snarl.

"For what purpose?"

"Orders," he scoffed, spitting in the mud. "I do as I'm told."

"Where is Lord Tully?"

"At the wedding," the man said, wrenching away, fear in his face. "Let me go."

Sandor released him, pulling his hood up and mounting Stranger, pitting the horse against the tide of men. It was an eerily silent leave-taking, the soldiers slipping through the trees like ghosts, and they had, by and large, left their tents and fires blazing, no sound from them but the crunching of their boots in the leaves.

He wheeled Stranger through the crowd of men-at-arms, intent on finding Arya Stark. As he got closer to the castle, a clangor arose. It was a strange commotion, the noises of feasting mixed with the sounds of fighting, and he had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew exactly what had happened. He only hoped he could find Arya Stark before someone else did.

Then the burning started. Brynden Tully had sent his men into the woods with the clothes on their backs and what gear they could carry, and now the Freys and Bolton men were setting fire to the tents, no doubt drunk enough to think that they were in for a good fight. If they were beginning such an attack, Sandor could only guess that whatever was supposed to happen inside that Keep had already been accomplished. Walder Frey and Roose Bolton would never torch an army encampment for the sheer hell of it, not if they had been unsuccessful.

A small figure darted out from one of the tents just starting to flame, and Sandor was on her in an instant. He grabbed her by the shoulder of her tunic, wrenching her back. She flailed.

"It's too late, little wolf," he barked, and when the child continued to struggle, he walloped her soundly, knocking her unconscious and swinging them both up into his saddle. Stranger pranced, agitated by the noise and the flame. Sandor looked for an open path, dismayed at the thought that he would have to cross into the Keep.

Instead, he seized a Frey banner and spurred Stranger through the camp, at last coming to the woods again. It took little time to catch up with Robb Stark's retreating forces, scurrying like frightened rabbits through the forest. He threw down the standard and wheeled on the first group of men.

"Lord Tully," he rasped. "Is he here?"

"Aye," one of them said, pointing to the west. "Rode through a bit ago."

"Any other commanders?"

"I don't know,"

Sandor growled and Stranger reared up. He grabbed the child before she had the chance to fall, not giving the horse a moment of pause to do so again, ranging down the line in search of horsemen.

There were few, and Sandor wondered what they would do without enough horses. The men would be prey coming morning, Frey and Bolton riders easily able to rout them. It didn't take long for him to spy the lone group of mounted men, identifying Brynden Tully's silver hair even in the darkness and from a distance. Behind him was another figure, hooded and sagging against the Blackfish.

When he approached, the old lord's face was streaked with blood and grime. Sandor wasn't sure he wanted to know what had happened in that Keep. The child stirred against him, groggy.

"What the fuck happened?" Sandor demanded, Stranger dancing beneath him.

"Massacre," Tully managed. "We were right. You were right. Most of Robb's bannermen dead, his mother, his queen-" his voice trailed off, and though Sandor could not see his eyes for the dark, they would be haunted. Sandor swallowed thickly, not rueing the death of Catelyn Stark, but the murder of Talisa Stark was a tragic thing. She had been kind, and more importantly, she had been kind to Lenna, a friend. He clenched his eyes at the thought that she could have been there, that she could have been slaughtered in the Frey's hall.

She is safe in White Harbor, he assured himself, forcing his gaze back to Brynden Tully.

"And the king?" Sandor asked.

"Robb!" Arya Stark had come around fully, and he just managed to catch her. The man seated behind Brynden Tully stirred, the cloak falling back ever so slightly. Just enough for Sandor to catch the glint of moonlight on a ruddy curl.

"Arya?" he said weakly. The child slid from Sandor's saddle and he let her. Her brother was on the ground immediately, but he grunted and winced with pain as soon as his feet hit the dirt, but he stretched out an arm and the girl hugged his other side sniffling loudly.

"He's wounded," Brynden said quietly, edging closer to Sandor. "Quite badly. I have to get him out of here."

"Aye," Sandor agreed, taking in the way the younger man was gingerly petting his little sister. There were tears streaming down his face, catching in his beard and sparkling like dew in the moonlight. "Take him south if you can. Beric Dondarrion-"

"What of him?" Tully asked sharply. There hadn't been time earlier to make a full report, Sandor realized. He had not told the Blackfish of his success with the Brotherhood, though he wasn't sure it mattered now.

"He's hiding out in the woods. Take the king to him." Beric Dondarrion had lived and remained traceless for over a year. If anyone could keep Robb Stark safe for a time, it would be the Lightning Lord and his band.

"How?"

"Send word. Inn at the Crossroads. Leave a message for Anguy. Keep him out of sight. You'll be pigeons on a fence, target practice, come sunup." If they didn't get a move on soon, they'd be picked off in the moonlight. It wouldn't take long for the Freys and the Boltons to realize that their most prized victim was not among the dead.

The Blackfish looked at him dolefully. "Our men will scatter. I fear the Lannisters have won this round."

"There will be others," Sandor replied. The older man nodded in agreement, setting his jaw. He was experienced enough to hear the truth in those words.

"It isn't over," Brynden said, fatigue and weariness in each syllable. Fatigue and ferocity.

"Not until we're all dead," Sandor replied. Brynden Tully fell silent, looking at his niece and nephew, still holding each other in the dark. Robb Stark stumbled, his strength fading. "What of her?" Sandor asked, tilting his chin at the girl clinging to her brother. "Is she to go with you, now?"

"No," Robb Stark rasped. "It isn't safe." Arya pulled a little away from him, her small face white and pinched in the dark light of the forest. Robb ran his hand over her hair and the child whimpered. "She won't be safe with me."

"I'm going with you," she said fiercely, her voice rising until it became a squeak.

"Keep your voice down," Sandor growled. He turned his attention back to the King. "Where, then?"

Robb looked at the Blackfish. The man sighed heavily.

"Lysa Arryn," he said quietly. "Take her to the Eyrie. Her aunt will look after her there. Only family she has left."

"Robb-" she cried.

"No, Arya," he replied weakly, trying to smile. "You'll go with Clegane. He'll keep you safe, I promise you."

"You trust him?" she asked. "How can you trust him?"

"He saved my life," Robb choked. "He tried to save all our lives, and I-I didn't listen. I should have listened." He turned and looked at Sandor, but he could not hold his gaze. Too much pain.

"I'll keep her safe," Sandor rasped. "Come now, little wolf."

Arya had fully backed away from her brother, her little body tense as if poised for a fight.

"Please, Arya," Robb said, leaning against his uncle's horse. His face had gone bone white and Sandor was impressed that he had not yet fainted. The lad had lost a lot of blood if the shining stain on his cloak was any indication.

"We can't waste more time," Sandor said, swinging down. He went to the King and pushed him up behind his uncle. The young man could barely hang on. Sandor sighed, wondering if Robb Stark would make it to sunrise, turning his attention back to Arya. "If you want him to live, wolf girl, if you want to live, we need to go."

"I don't want to lose you, too, Arya," Robb said weakly, eyes like embers as he looked at his little sister. Terrible struggle contorted her face for an instant, but then she marched to Stranger and clambered up on his back, facing forward with dry eyes, her hands folded on the pommel.

Sandor swung up behind her, and, nodding to the Blackfish, turned Stranger's face north. The child clung to him, twisting in her seat to look over his shoulder, watching as her brother and uncle disappeared through the underbrush to the south. When they were out of sight, she continued to hang on to him like a burr, her face buried against shoulder and her little body silent and still.

A/N: Terrified to post this. Entering uncharted waters, all in service to the endgame. Be gentle, but please let me know what you think. As always, I appreciate all readers and reviewers. You've all helped me become a much better writer, and I'm grateful for your continued readership and kind words.