The Hound swung himself from the startled horse. In the clearing, a shabby camp made up of shabby men, five of them, all with swords raised: one boy; three his own age, all varieties of luckless Northern peasant; and an older one, Northern too, with white at his temples and a dent in one cheekbone.

It was this one, the older one, who smiled at him. The Hound saw it and understood that now in every gathering of men he encountered there would be a smile such as this. Deserter, traitor, thief, the smile was one of mutual recognition, of like meeting like; after everything he'd been through, all the long years of obedience, of obedience, and now at the end- now this knowing little smile everywhere he looked-

Of course, it was also that they were Northmen. Behind him sat the North's lost princess, stolen away by the Crown's rabid dog. You should've expected this. What were you going to do, cut out the eyes of the entire Kingsroad?

The Hound turned. He reached the girl in four strides, drew his hand back quick, slapped; she shot from him like an arrow. Don't need to see it. Better she stay out of reach; best of all the horse not join the fight, not when he himself was on the ground too.

Movement behind him. Turning back quick he kicked the knee out of the closest one, the boy, before the axe could reach him. The axe fell away to the side and the men, hearing the chopped-wood sound of the breaking bones, stilled, drew back wary, swords high, even as the boy rolled in the loam, shock and agony making his openmouthed scream silent, his axe beside him in the dirt, his hands gripping his leg bent out the wrong way.

He ignored the boy, the others. He spoke only to the older man.

"What you think you know- " he snarled.

"More'n you," the man interrupted, evenly. "Else you'd hie over to the riverlands an' put her right back. Ain't no North left to sell her to." He smiled. "We went away too. Only we dinna take much away but this." He indicated his own mail with a dip of his chin, and his laugh was a croak. "You've got in a tricky spot. Brought away more than you can carry. Maybe if we was all together, you'd have better luck getting her by. Ah, you don't like that. But mind, you owe me, now I'm out him- "

With his free hand the man motioned to the boy, who was on his way to losing consciousness, keening like a child, pale-faced, in the dirt. "Down one more. Down six since we started. Always better in a number. Everyone knows that."

The Hound snarled the entire plea away. "Came from the castle yourself?"

"Not a one of us. But Morley there was in the fields, he saw it sacked." The man tilted his head toward the stringy man to his left. "Burnt to a crisp, beg pardon." The smile again.

The stringy man cleared his throat. "I seen it burning, an I brought away this- " His free hand dipped in the fold at his waist and the Hound's eyes followed it. Something wrapped in a length of lace. A glint of bright metal sticking out from the end of it- gold?

A blur at the edge of his vision.

The Hound stepped back. The swing meant for his neck bounced lightly off his collarbone, and the third man, cursing, leapt backwards as well, out of range, wild-eyed.

In response the Hound swept forward and in one smooth arc brought his sword to his feet where it caught for only a moment. The dented cuirass remained where it was. The spray raced a bright glossy line across their boots. Their eyes all turned to watch the boy's head as it bounced and rolled, spraying, and the Hound took that moment of their inattention, as they had taken his, and put it to his use.

He left the older man for last and now looked down at him, panting. To the man's credit he hadn't tried to run. He stood back against the pile of bodies and his face had the blankness of someone who has outrun their debt but now finds it waiting before them.

"Not a one of you from the castle. But then this, here... " said the Hound, and with the tip of his sword pulled at the bearded one's arm so that it slid limply away from his shield. He turned the shield over with the toe of his boot. In the center of the shield a row of holes, arrowhead-shaped, outlined where a leather charge had been pried away. The paint beneath the missing charge was difficult to see, stained with mud, but a scrape by the sword brought it out: chalky green and cream.

"What was there before you pulled it off? Tell me."

"What do you think?" the man replied, and there was an impressive scorn in the voice, even alongside the fear. "I can see you haven't enough sense to run, when everything's afire." He shrugged, lightly, a last gesture of resignation. "It was over. No point to stay and die myself."

"They're both dead."

"The both of them, and I'd not wager much on the elder brother, either."

"If you've lied, I'll come to the Hells myself just to find you."

"If I've told the truth, will you spare me?" The man's face smoothed and a shadow of a smile crossed it, puckering the dented cheek. "No? I didn't expect so. Go ahead North, then, you cursed monster, and I pray that they burn up the other half of you to match."

It was common convention in the South that Northmen were stoic to the point of caricature. The Hound had never seen this disproven, and it was not disproven now. The man kept his eyes fixed unblinkingly at the Hound's and didn't look down once, not even when the impact pushed the breath up out of him in a barking gasp; not even as his hands came out, reflexively, to catch the sliding tangle of ropes.