Chapter 9: Arya

"We don't want to go in," Arya said. "There might be ghosts."

The Hound snorted as he swung off his 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. Stay with the horse if you want, it's no hair off my arse."

"What if they know you?" Arya questioned. "They might want to take you prisoner."

Sandor grunted, "Let them try."

He loosened his sword from it's scabbard, the dull grey steel peeking over the top, and marched into the inn like he owned it. His face was uncovered, almost challenging the world to a fight. Not that his helm would have helped much, shaped like a hound as it was. Arya looked around, to the long flat stretch of land in all direction, to a small copse of trees in the distance, and the river not too far away. The Kingsroad ran straight through here.

Arya patted Stranger, chewing her lip as she did so. I could run. Take Stranger and Craven and ride away. He'd never be able to keep up. And yet, she led the horses to the stable as he had instructed her to do, tying them to a post, and then went in after him.

They know him, she could tell. And I know them.

Not the women or the skinny innkeeper, but the soldiers. The Tickler and Polliver both. Already, Arya could tell a fight was brewing. There are only three, Arya thought. Not a hopeless battle, but certainly not a smart one. The third one, a pudgy boy with spots on his face, likely a squire, spoke up, slurring his words slightly, drunk, "This the lost puppy Ser Gregor spoke of? The one who piddled in the rushes and ran off?" The Tickler put a warning hand on his arm, and shook his head, beckoning the boy to stop. The boy apparently did not notice, and gave the Hound a stupid mocking grin, "Said he ran off whimpering."

The Hound stayed silent, and Polliver shoved the girl he had on his lap off, and rose to his feet, "The lad's drunk. He can't hold his wine, is all."

"Then he shouldn't drink."

"Ah, is the puppy scared-" the Tickler grabbed his ear and twisted, hard, his words becoming a sharp squeal of pain.

The innkeeper arrived, arms laden heavy with flagons of wine. Sandor immediately snatched one off the platter, and gulped it down till half his flagon was all but gone. He slammed the flagon down, fished out some coppers and threw them on the table, and turned to the innkeeper, "Best pick those up. It's likely the only coins you'll see today."

Polliver frowned, "We'll pay when we're done drinking."

"When you're done drinking you'll tickle the innkeeper to see where he keeps his gold. The way you always do."

It seemed as though the innkeeper and the rest of the inhabitants of the inn had caught up. He left quickly, and the girl that had been on Polliver's lap fished a garment off the ground, using it to cover her bare breasts as she rushed off. We should leave too, Arya knew. "If you're looking for Ser, you're too late. He was at Harrenhall, and now he's not. The Queen called for him." Polliver paused, and Arya took stock of the steel on his body. Three blades on his belt: a longsword, a dagger, and something in between. He sipped his wine, speaking very matter-of-factly, "King Joffrey's dead, you know. Poisoned at his own wedding feast."

Joffrey's dead. She felt the urge to smile, but it felt hollow when she did. Still, the news was music to her ears. Joffrey's dead!

"Who killed him?" the Hound asked.

"The Imp, it's thought. Him and his little wife."

Both Sandor and Arya were confused at that, till Polliver explained it to them. That's stupid, Arya thought when she heard. She'd never marry the Imp. Sandor gulped his wine with the ghost of a smile on his face as he heard of the Queen's suspicions of Tyrion, "She ought to dip him in wildfire and cook him."

Arya bit her lip so hard at hearing that she tasted blood. He's one of them. Just like all of them. I should kill him whilst he sleeps. Arya payed only the barest of attention as Sandor and Polliver began to discuss Harrenhall, "-a couple wenches to warm our beds, and put all the rest to the sword."

"All of them?" Arya blurted out. She covered her mouth, and the two went back to discussing Harrenhall, the Riverlands, and the Saltpans.

Then, the topic of Sansa came back up, "Well, the little bird flew away, did she? Good, she shit on the Imp's head and left."

"They'll find her," said Polliver, "if it takes half the gold in Casterly Rock, they'll find her."

"A pretty girl," the Tickler interjected, smacking his lips, "and courteous too. Not like her vicious bitch of a sister."

"They found her too," Polliver said. "The sister. Rumour is that she was off to wed Bolton's bastard, but the new King put a stop to it."

Arya sipped her wine so that they couldn't see her mouth. Sansa Stark has no other sister. Sandor laughed uproariously.

Polliver frowned, "What's so bloody funny?" Then, he leaned in, speaking in a low, threatening tone, "Ser would sooner see you returned to Harrenhall, Sandor. Or Kings Landing..."

Sandor shook his head, "Bugger him, bugger that, bugger you."

The Tickler reached behind his head to scratch himself, and Sandor burst into action. He lurched to his feet just as a flash of silver flew past him, leaving only a shallow wound on his ribs instead of through the middle of his throat. The Tickler's hand was outstretched, as though he had just thrown something. Polliver cursed, drew his sword, and swung. Sandor met his blow, directing it away, "I was hoping you'd do something stupid."

Sandor met the Tickler and Polliver in combat, and it seemed as though they were all an even match for each other. Arya saw the squire scrabbling for his sword, however, and knew she would have to join. She flung her cup of wine at his face, and he went down flat on his hindquarters. She turned back, only to find the Hound was being driven back. He's drunk, she realised with dismay. The Tickler was reaching behind him, quiet as anything, waiting till Polliver pushed him far enough. Arya snatched up a second cup and flung it at his face, only to find that his awareness was better than that of the squire's. Metal clanged on the floor, and he gave her a cold, hard stare.

The squire was slowly recovering, drawing himself back to his feet, and Arya felt panic bubbling in her chest. She could only watch as the Tickler closed on Sandor, blood gushing from his face, the stump where his ear should have been replaced with an open wound. He twisted violently, and the two men began to back him into a corner. Arya sighted a third flagon, this one of heavy stone, and she grabbed it, ready to fling before she was stopped. You forgot the other one, you big stupid.

The squire had a sword in one hand and her waist in the other, his grip tight enough to leave bruises. Still, he was too close, and Arya strained and reached around, pulling his dagger from it's sheath and plunging it into his gut, twisting and twisting. His eyes went big, his sword clattered to the ground, and he fell down, blood pooling around him. Sandor was, at this point, hiding behind a bench, leaning against the wall noisily, taunting them, "If you want me, come get me."

"You think we won't? You're drunk."

Sandor kicked the bench, sending it into Polliver's shins. When he fell, a vicious cut followed, and blood spattered the ceiling, "Maybe, but you're dead."

The Tickler backed away, reeking of fear. Arya suddenly noticed that she still held the bloodstained dagger in her hand. All his focus was on Sandor, and he wasn't armoured. It was the easiest thing in the world to stab him. And she did. Over and over and over. She was on top of him now, screaming, face splattered with blood, "How many, how many, how many, how many?! Is there gold in the village?!"

Sandor pulled her off him, and she directed him to the still-bleeding squire, and he examined the lad, "Pricked him in the bowels, you did, that'll be the end of him. He'll be dying a long time, too."

The lad whimpered on the ground, begging, and Sandor gestured for her to finish him. She braced herself, searching for his pulse, and when she found it, she plunged her dagger deeper and deeper into his chest till he was still. Sandor began to speak, and she listened in a haze to his jabs, and to his plans. She went off, dutifully, to fetch the wine and coin, and when she returned, they left. He needed help mounting Stranger, blood still flowing, albeit slower now. They set off, eyes watching them leave, though they disappeared out of sight as they passed some trees, avoiding the ruby ford and following the Kingsroad, through marshes and woods and weedy fields. Finally, hours later, they arrived at the banks of the Trident, far from the inn.

They made camp there, and Arya gathered deadwood for a fire and watered the horses as the Hound gulped that last half of a wineskin she had stolen for him, "If only I had more wine. Maybe I ought to send you back to that bloody inn for another skin or three."

Arya shook her head, "No." I won't do it. If he asks again, I'll leave him, I swear it.

Sandor saw the look on her face, "A jest, wolf-girl. A bloody jest."

Eventually, he got the fire going, and Arya watched him, "Won't the smoke be seen?"

The Hound grunted weakly, "Anyone wants to find us, they only need to follow the blood. We've made a trail straight here." He poured the last dregs of the wineskin into his helm, mixed it with some water, and held it over the fire till the mixture simmered, "Take the cup from my bedroll and dip it. Careful. You spill any and I will send you back for more. Pour it over my wounds."

She did as he ordered, her fingers blistering at the heat, and he bit down on a stick, a piece of deadwood she had fetched. As the boiling wine poured over his wounds, he grunted, but did not scream, though the stick broke when she did his neck. Finally, with a fresh stick in his mouth, she did his ear, and he did scream then, loud. A long, painful howl, his body writhing, and then he slipped into unconsciousness. She didn't need instructions to finish her task. She bound his head with strips of the squire's cloak, using almost half to stem the bleeding.

"The Hound," she whispered. Maybe he'd be dead by morning...

Then, she settled herself in for another cold night, letting the horses graze as they pleased. She lay down, the fire crackling in the corner of her eyes as night fell, the moon visible through the branches. She recited her list, "The Mountain," she said softly, "Ser Illyn, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei-"

She closed her eyes, Joffrey. It made her feel odd to leave him out. She was glad he was dead, but sad that she hadn't been there to see him dead. She turned her thoughts to Tommen. He stopped 'Arya' from leaving for the Boltons. Surely he must know it's not really Arya? She remembered the short, pudgy blonde who had come to Winterfell. Didn't seem the cleverest. All he ever did was play at swords with Bran, and not very well at that. Could he have forgotten me?

The thought made Arya long for Winterfell. I... I wish I could change into a wolf and grow wings and fly away.

Arya shook her head, Valar morghulis, and resumed her recitation of her list, "Lord Tywin, Dunsen-"

"Arya Stark?" asked a breathless voice.

Arya jerked up, her blistered hand closing around Needle's hilt. She looked around, searching for the source of the voice, and saw a helm peeking through the foliage, which emerged to become a knight clad in half-plate and chainmail. Perhaps a half-dozen more knights followed the man, whose helm turned to look at the Hound, and then back at her. None of the men bore any sigil, but Arya did not need any sigil to tell that these were Westermen.

The man at the front spoke up, "You are hereby under arrest, Arya Stark, by order of His Grace, King Tommen Baratheon."

No, Arya thought bitterly. I don't think he has.

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