A/N: Last chapter was the culmination of the actions sequences, mostly. Stuff will still happen, but it will be more political. I hope it is still just as enjoyable.
Sandor
Too much fucking snow for it to be fucking summer.
Sandor was absolutely miserable in this damned weather, and his charge certainly did not make things better. At least they would be out of the elements soon enough.
Joffrey's decision to assert his princely rights could not have occurred at a worse time, or rather, in a worse location. Sandor had always figured the little shit would kill someone in training one day. He wasn't a terrible swordsman, but Stark had the benefit of age and decent training. If I knew I'd be freezing my balls off for three sennights, I never would have goaded that master-at-arms.
The fair-haired snatch had protested loudly, at first, when Sandor had to haul him out of that castle. He clearly had no idea that killing a lord's heir in his own castle was a great way to get your guts impaled with all manner of objects, prince of the realm or no. Thankfully, the other dozen or so Lannister men with him had somehow shut him up long enough for them to get out of the castle and the collection hovels around it passing for a town. After stealing horses from a few skewered smallfolk at an inn, they road them hard to the east on farm roads and hunting trails until the first mount died. The men butchered it, divided up the meat, and continued at an only slightly slower pace.
They didn't have a destination in mind, at first, but Sandor knew to avoid the King's Road. There had been a sizable holdfast one day's ride south, which meant a quick arrest by Stark men and a one week ride through a fucking miserable swamp if they somehow got around it. Going north would only keep them in this frozen shit-hole longer, and to the west was a thick wood that would surely slow them down, with no port city of note to lose their pursuers in a crowd.
Fortunately, staying away from people was not difficult. The North had the most fucking nothing in the entire Seven Kingdoms. The first few days they hardly saw a soul, and the ones they did see thought nothing of them. The guards killed them anyway, so that they wouldn't spread rumors of a dozen or so men in red coats-of-arms and a golden haired lordling fleeing through the countryside. Taking the crofter's clothing made them look a little less suspicious, at least.
On the fourth day of hard riding, they hit a large river. It flowed south at a rush that made it too treacherous to attempt a crossing. The party was forced to turn south and follow it. Neither Sandor nor the prince could remember the names of any Northern rivers, but the size alone made it likely to lead to a port city, hopefully White Harbor. Even second sons of second generation landed knights in the Westerlands had heard of White Harbor, the fourth largest city in Westeros. Where there was a port, there would be smugglers, and hopefully their way out of this endless frozen hell.
The smallfolk were living in farming villages as they continued to follow the river, and became too numerous to kill for silence. Food became easier, as men could pull up turnips or beets from the farms they crossed, and there were now barns to shelter them from the increasingly frequent summer snows. The blonde cunt would complain about the conditions of his food and lodging, stating that a prince of the realm should be in no danger from his own smallfolk and that they would have to give up their homes to them if he ordered it, but none of the guards were foolish enough to let the prince try. They were desperate, but they weren't fucking stupid. It was brought up again after Lewys was mauled to death by a bear when he wandered off to take a piss one night, but Sandor held firm.
Eventually they came to a drop off where the river water fell a sizable distance before setting off again. The cliff went on for the visible distance to the south and east, but a switch-back path wound its way down on the opposite bank. A bridge was set near enough to them, but a small holdfast stood on the far side with a gate that prevented passage. They would be asked for a toll, it seemed.
One of the men had some stags on him that he claimed to have won from a Northman at dice before they left Winterfell, so the toll was likely covered, but they knew they could not afford to be recognized. The men smeared their remaining livery with mud from further up the bank, and Sandor glowered and threatened spoiled ponce until he did the same. The brat pouted, but eventually gave in. He was forced to bury his expensive, fancy fucking helm behind a rock on the bank of the river, since it was easily the most recognizable thing in their party, but honestly he was glad to be rid of the blasted thing. A recognizable helm was good for striking fear into his opponents, but it did no better than a bucket in a true fight.
The keeper of the holdfast was a knight, anointed with the seven oils and all other nonsense, much to Sandor's surprise and frustration. The North has knights? The man was somewhat young, but fit and with dull brown hair and eyes he managed to look like the nobody that he was. He hailed them in the name of the Seven and bid their business at his crossing.
That was when the pale cretin decided to show that he actually had paid attention to at least some of what the perverted old Grand Maester had attempted to teach him of statecraft.
"We are men fleeing for our lives, Ser, and must get to White Harbor with all haste!" Joffrey said it as more of a command than a plea, and it was all Sandor could do not to clout him on the ear for making their identities so easy to discern.
"And who might you be, fleeing for your lives on my land? Have you disturbed the King's peace, or are you in flight from such villainy?" replied the Ser. Sandor couldn't believe their luck. The man had clearly not heard of the events at Winterfell, and better yet seemed to think he was a knight from a fucking song. I never thought I would be thankful for one of these cunts, but we'll be damned to the Others if he doesn't help us.
The sallow, golden ninny proceeded to lie his frozen arse off. If the spoiled little shit was good at anything, it was always lying.
He wove an intricate story of being a guest at Winterfell, a minor lordling from the south who followed the King's court to see the North and earn the favor of his grace. Apparently, the King's party had found Winterfell to be full of savages who laid with the beasts of their house sigil, but the King stayed in his graciousness in order to complete his business. Joffrey claimed to have earned the wrath of the Stark lord upon besting his son in a duel, and was forced to flee when Lord Stark's son tried to bring him into the godswood to sacrifice him to the Northern tree-gods in retaliation. These loyal men had smuggled him out at great peril, and they were seeking passage back south to relay to the court the betrayal of Ned Stark and to raise levies against him. The deceitful cunt even mourned for the King, likely captured and devoured by his traitorous bannerman.
Sandor was impressed that the lack-wit remembered that there was such a thing as a godswood at all.
The knight listened to the story with a look on his face that could only be described as indignation. Sandor almost thought they were discovered, but at the end of the tale swore on the Father and the Warrior that he would see them safe to White Harbor to see justice done.
After crossing his bridge, the knight kissed his plump and fearful wife goodbye and gave them fresh horses to continue their journey.
The ser had babbled on and on about his lands as they rode. His name was Ser Donnor Waterman, anointed in the Seven in the Seaside Sept in White Harbor for his service to Lord Wyman Manderly. House Manderly, he explained, was eternally mistrustful of his Stark liege due to their insistence on worshiping the Old Gods rather than the Seven, as was done by righteous men. Unlike their savage Northern neighbors, the Manderly men alone followed the Seven, knighted their land owners, and built cities rather than hovels. House Waterman had followed the Manderlys in their exile from the Reach in the time before Aegon the Conqueror had come with his dragons, and were forced to grudgingly swear fealty to the Starks to keep their heads. Ser Donnor claimed to be a minor cousin, his line coming from many times a second son until he was left with only the small keep they saw for his inheritance.
Sandor did not know that much of Northern history, and would have to take his word for it. While Sandor knew better than to trust the man, he couldn't see a better option. Joffrey was the only one among them high born enough to be given such an education, and he nodded his head and encouraged the sod, sympathizing with his plight over the barbaric Starks and promising to reward him highly when he brought the King's army back to the North. The ser swore he could get them into White Harbor and under Lord Manderly's protection until safe transportation with a true and loyal captain could be arranged.
Maybe now that we have arrived at White Harbor, the Ser will shut his fucking mouth.
The city itself was not impressive to look at for anyone who had been to Kings Landing or Lannisport, but it was certainly larger than the backwater of Winter Town. Sandor could not tell if the city was white because of the stone it was built from, or the sea-bird shit that covered it, but the walls seemed sturdy enough should a siege come their way.
Ser Donnor secured temporary lodging for their horses at a stable a short distance outside the walls, before going up to a vendor's stall and buying them all new cloaks. "To protect your identity from any Stark loyalists we might see," he explained. "Think of it as a parting gift from me to commemorate our journey."
Their escort hailed a guard at the gate in the city walls and had a few words with him before the man's eyes widened and he went off running somewhere within White Harbor itself.
"I sent the man for his captain, Ser Marlon Manderly. The Starks have eyes even here in White Harbor, but he is a trustworthy man. I bid you to be inconspicuous while we get you your audience." The Ser sat with them, waiting outside the city walls.
Eventually, the captain approached them. He was taller than average, but still shorter than Sandor by more than a head. His beard was grey with some streaks of brown remaining at the tips. The man scanned their party, eyes pausing on the pompous princeling and Sandor for short moments before continuing on. Their faces could not be seen under their hooded cloaks, but the size differences from the rest of the men must have been notable enough. Regardless, Sandor let his hand fall to his sword, should something go wrong.
"What business have you here, Ser Waterman?" the captain asked.
"Ser Marlon, I found these men fleeing through my lands. They have urgent business with Lord Manderly. I should like to accompany them to receive their audience, but we must use the utmost discretion."
The somewhat portly man gave them another once over before addressing their knightly escort. "I understand, Ser. We will take them in through a side-entrance so as not to make a spectacle. I'm sure Lord Manderly will want to see them very soon."
The captain led their party through a less busy gate before quickly turning down narrow streets and into small alleys. They passed few people, and those they did paid them no mind. All the better. I'm still not convinced of this plan.
Sandor walked up to the blonde cunt's side to make his final stand for sanity. He whispered as quietly as he could so as not to be overheard. "Your grace, are you certain you wish to trust these men? If we kill these two now, we can run to the docks and escape on the first vessel we happen upon. Any merchant will surely understand the circumstances and would no doubt have us on the way to King's Landing before these two are missed."
"This is why you should leave the thinking to me, you dirty dog," he whispered back furiously. "You have heard what the knight said on our journey. Why flee when I can rescue my family from the Starks here and now with the help of Lord Manderly and his men?" The naïve jackass said with a sneer.
The cunt may be good at lying, but he has poor talent for guessing when one deceives him in turn. "This is foolhardy. I'm going to end this farce myse-"
Before he could finish, a door further up the alley opened and men with the blue-green surcoats of House Manderly began storming out with their spears leveled.
Sandor had his ungrateful charge in one arm and his sword in the other in an instant, and turned around just in time to see spears erupt from the chests and throats of the other Lannister men-at-arms who had traveled all this way with them. Most of the men were screaming, but one unlucky bastard could only gurgle.
The cowardly ponce was shouting his bloody head off in outrage, demanding that Sandor kill them all, but he was no fool. Ten spears and two knights was too many even for him, especially while trying to guard the useless sack of shit at his side. Worse than useless. I should not have listened to him. What were you thinking, you fucking lunk?
Soon enough the guards had them encircled with spear-tips all around his throat, and when the captain held a sword to his back and demanded that he drop the boy, he could do little but comply. He heard more than saw his charge get pulled away behind him, the screams quickly muffled.
Then, he felt a hard blow to the back of his unprotected head and all went black.
A/N: All mistakes are my own. All criticism is appreciated.