The men in the center of the clearing were silent except for the hiss of their drawn swords. In that startled instant she saw them clearly. Knights, Sansa had first thought, but then- no, wait, they're not, and they're not half-armoured– it was only that their bits of plate and mail were incongruous, mismatched, with scratched-away arms. They have escaped some army, but what army? In the center of the big one's shield, the shadow of some emblem pulled away, flowers... no, thistles?
She was as sheltered as her birth had allowed but she'd seen tourneys, had lived through a war. This, though, was something new. The Hound was behind her on the horse and then, fluidly, not; he was laughing angrily at her and then he was on the ground, not laughing, transformed.
It was like dancing. How could someone so big move so quickly? And how the men fanned out around him, mirroring him, like drops of oil on hot water. One of them had a plated breast and sleeves of full mail and then bare legs in thin breeches, with rags tied at the knee. Three had swords, but one had only an axehead on a pole and was Robb's age. That one, the young one, wore a dented cuirass and his thin dirty neck stuck out from it, corded like a rooster's. All of them were breathing through their mouths. She watched their eyes, their mouths obscured by the fog of their hard breath; the young one was muttering something to himself. None of them looked up at her.
She found that she was neither afraid for herself or for him. It was only that she wasn't sure she was ready to see it happen. The man who'd crawled on top of her while she slept- that was different. She'd wanted what the Hound had done, had wanted to look at the man afterward. She'd stared into the rolled-up yellowish eyes and watched the ants streaming out of his mouth and had turned and swept herself back into her life. But this-
"They're only beggars," she whispered. It made no difference.
The one in the middle was old, with white mixed in his close-cropped bristling hair, and when his croaking voice broke the silence she was surprised to hear thick Northern, white-woods Northern: We doan have nothing you'd want, you great bastard, and what we do have won't fit you anyhow, he said. It was like a door opening in her chest. His rheumy ice-grey eyes turning to hers and then the quick glance dragged back to her, grabbed her whole, and all of it, his voice, his black hair, the high cheekbones and up-tilted eyes, all of it coalesced into an absolute mutual recognition.
The old man smiled, but not at her. One corner of the ragged mouth tugged up. "Goin North," he said, softly, not a question.
The Hound slid forward three paces and hung there, shoulders rolled forward, perfectly still. She watched him, his chest moving slow with his even breath, his weight shifting. There was nothing to be done about it. The old man had betrayed himself. She was glad she couldn't see the Hound's face.
"Might as well turn round, then," the man croaked, and lifted his silvery chin, "no one left up there t' sell her to. But if you turn round and join on with us an'- "
The Hound moved. She braced herself for the sight, eyes squinting, but instead of advancing on them he spun round, his back to the men, and there was his ragged face contorted with frustration, eyes on hers, rushing at her; she put her hands up in front of her face and choked No and then she coughed a gasp as he reached her, reached burning past her and hit the horse squarely on the croup, palm open. It screamed and leapt from him. She grabbed handfuls of mane as it reared, dancing away from him, the other horses rearing and screaming now too, and the last thing she saw was the Hound's snarling face and the men at his back, jumping to him, swords high.
And then she was riding the horse, alone.
She heard nothing behind her. Branches whipped by. The horse– great black mountain, not really a horse at all– seemed unaware of her; he was only running. The ground below, so far– she could jump– all briars, all brambles; if she fell he would step on her, he was so tall. He was trotting now but still too fast, if he would just stop, she could swing her leg over, maybe, jump to the side– she ducked as a vine swung at her– he was so tall, her panicked breathing hollow in her ears; she was dizzy, her hands numb, dark now at the edges of her vision; she was going to fall…
She leaned forward and wrapped both arms tight around the great silky black neck in terror, sobbed Please into his skin. The horse stopped short. It was over. And he stood there, chewing at nothing, twitching, snorting. Her vision cleared; she drew back, and he dropped his head, accepting her trembling pats, his affront calmed. As she sat stock-still atop him in the quiet, and looked at the green wood over his brow, it came to her–now I am the black rider. For a moment the fear was gone. She tasted the omnipotence and to her surprise, found it oddly hollow.
She waited there and patted at the coat; it wasn't much longer until the strangled cries came from behind her.