Wilting ♞ Sandor Clegane

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THE AIR IN the inn is dusky and humid, the ale stale, and the company less than desirable. A group of men wearing the king's colors are there, stealing from the poor and terrorizing the innkeeper's family despite his pleas —one of the man's daughters is squirming and crying as the soldiers grope at her. They'll rape her before they set off if they haven't already. Anya glares at the men as she passes by with Arya and Sandor, taking an empty table, and bites her tongue to keep from intervening with words or steel.

"That one's Polliver," Arya whispers, nodding to the one with his hand stuck down the bodice of the poor girl on his lap. "And that one there's Lowell." She's mentioned them before. They attacked Yoren on the road from King's Landing and killed a boy named Lommy. If that weren't enough to make them a rotten lot, then working under Gregor Clegane at Harrenhal certainly would —they enjoyed the torture just as much as the Mountain.

It doesn't take long for the king's men to recognize the Hound, but none can place Arya or Anya as Starks. "Pour our new friend some ale," Polliver says as he rises and takes a seat on the empty bench opposite them. Arya's eyes narrow as he sits, and Anya sees what the girl is staring at —a castle-forged sword too small to belong to a man. Needle. The innkeeper brings over two full tankards of ale and places them down on the splintering table, the warm and pale liquid sloshing out. "What brings you so far north?"

Sandor quaffs down the ale. "Could ask the same of you," he bites back, not hiding his distaste for this lot. "What are you doing up here?" He asks in turn, but judging by their heavy coin purses, he already knows.

Polliver shrugs like the answer should be obvious. "Just keeping the king's peace."

"No need," Sandor replies. "War's over." War ended that night at the Twins when Robb Stark was murdered. The Northerners might fight for a few more weeks, maybe months, but, in the end, they'd bend the knee.

"So I've heard," Polliver responds. "Stannis defeated at the Blackwater. Robb Stark killed at the Twins" —his eye twitches when he pauses to glance at Arya and Anya— "and where am I for all of it? Stuck with your brother." Hearing how he talks about torture makes Anya's stomach churn.

"You know what? You should come with us." Polliver finally says. "His kind" —he motions over his shoulder to the weeping innkeeper, pleading for mercy for his daughters— "they've always got something hidden away somewhere. Gold, silver, more daughters. Always something if you know how to make them talk. And there's plenty of him between here and King's Landing." Sandor takes a long drink from his cup of ale, disinterested. "You could do well for yourself," he tells the Hound. "We certainly have been." Murdering, raping, and pillaging is what he means.

Sandor lips twitch — man's got to have a code, he told Arya one day before the Red Wedding. He leans to the side and spits on the floor before taking another long swig of his warm ale. "I'm not going to King's Landing," he tells them. If all goes to plan, he'll never have to step foot in that cesspit of a city again.

"Think about it," Polliver reasons. "We could do whatever we like wherever we go" —he taps his worn brown doublet bearing the lion of Lannister and Baratheon stag— "these are the king's colors," he reminds the Hound. And those who aren't wearing Joffrey's sigil wear Lannister armor. "No one's standing in his way now. Which means no one's standing in ours."

"Fuck the king," Sandor says, and Arya smirks hearing the words, but the inn falls silent, and hands go to rest over hilts of sharp swords, eager to bare steel. Anya thinks she knows now how this is going to end.

There's a long pause as Polliver looks over the Hound as though trying to size up the big man. Didn't make sense that someone with the Hound's reputation would run from battle. He's one of the best swordsmen and fighters in Westeros and probably the only one who can best the Mountain. But Sandor Clegane isn't at the king's side. He's here, in an inn hundreds of miles from the capital. "When I heard that Joffrey's dog tucked tail and ran from the Battle of the Blackwater, I didn't believe it. But here you are."