I quietly slipped into the violent waters of the Trident just as the fire took complete hold of the northern woods.I kept my eyes and nostrils above the waterline, letting the dark smoke over the river conceal my approach. Through the haze and the roar of the flames, my heightened senses painted a vivid picture of the City watch escorts falling apart on the southern bank.
The heat of the mile-long fire had rolled across the Ruby Ford. And I could hear the exact moment it swept through the open doorway of the massive, gilded wheelhouse sunk in the mud.
Inside the wheelhouse, the heavy, wet thud of a leather wineskin hitting the floorboards echoed in my ears. Sandor Clegane's heartbeat instantly skyrocketed, hammering against his chest. The Hound, the man who laughed at death and slaughtered without hesitation, completely shattered. The towering wall of fire seen through the carriage window triggered a terror so deep it silenced his rational mind.
He shoved himself backward with a desperate, strangled gasp, his heavy armor scraping against the fine velvet interior. He pressed his broad shoulders into the furthest, darkest corner of the wheelhouse, pulling his knees up tight. The burnt, puckered flesh on the left side of his face twitched violently. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing turning into rapid, shallow wheezes, completely paralyzed by the roaring fire that dwarfed the childhood brazier he still saw in his nightmares.
Across from him, Sansa Stark's reaction was entirely different.
At first, her heart raced with pure confusion and shock. She threw her small hands up to shield her face from the blinding, oppressive glare that had suddenly turned the grey morning into a blazing sunset. She looked at Sandor, her erratic breathing pausing as she watched the Hound, one of the most dangerous men in all of Westros, reduce himself to a whimpering, trembling mess in the corner.
Slowly, she lowered her hands and looked out the small window toward the river.
She saw the towering curtain of fire completely blocking the Kingsroad. Standing in front of it, untouched and unbothered by the flames, was her father. Ned Stark sat tall on his warhorse, his face remain expressless, his longsword drawn and resting across his saddle. Behind him sat two hundred massive Northern cavalrymen, their grey cloaks snapping in the wind, completely ignoring the fire at their backs.
The pieces fell into place in her mind. Sandor had warned her of a Lannister trap waiting in the woods. Now, those woods had burst into flames. The fire wasn't a disaster, it was a shield being wielded for her. Her terror slowly began to fade, replaced by sudden hope. She gripped the edge of her velvet seat, leaning closer to the window, watching her father demand her return.
Outside the carriage, the rest of the gold cloak escort was rapidly unraveling.
Ser Meryn Trant sat on his white horse near the water's edge, he gripped his reins, tight enough for the leather to creak. He was sweating profusely inside his white enamel armor. The left side of his face throbbed painfully in the intense baking heat.
Trant knew about the ambush. It was the only reason a coward like him had volunteered for this escort. He was supposed to bring the girl to the river, wait for Ned Stark to cross, and then Tywin Lannister's three thousand heavy cavalry would sweep out of the trees and butcher the Northmen. Trant was only here to watch the execution.
Now, Tywin's army was cut off by a mile of impenetrable fire. The trap with it.
Trant looked across the rushing water. Ned Stark wasn't alone. He had brought two hundred heavy lances, seasoned, hardened killers from the North who looked wild and eager for blood. Trant only had fifty Gold Cloaks and a handful of Kingsguard. They were hopelessly outnumbered and completely outmatched.
The Gold Cloaks were already losing their nerve. These were city watchmen, men used to bullying starving peasants in the alleys of King's Landing, not the vanguard meant to hold a river against a heavy cavalry charge. The blistering heat, the deafening roar of the burning forest, and the sight of the mighty Jaime Lannister sitting maimed and bleeding on a horse across the water had shattered their morale completely.
They began to back their horses away from the muddy banks, their armor clinking nervously. The murmurs started low, then grew louder, bordering on open treachery.
A captain hissed, his voice trembling as he looked at the flames. "Lord Tywin can't reach us."
"The Northmen," another muttered, his eyes widening with panic. "They'll slaughter us all in the mud!"
"I didn't march out here to die," a third man said, glancing back over his shoulder toward the southern road. "We need to withdraw. Now."
Meryn Trant heard them, but he was completely paralyzed. His mind raced frantically, trying to find a way out. If he ordered a retreat and left Jaime Lannister in Stark's hands, Cersei would have his head mounted on a spike before the week was out. But if he ordered his men to fight, the Northerner's would cleave him in half before he could even draw his sword. He sat frozen in the saddle, utterly clueless, unable to command the terrified men behind him.
The escort was entirely focused on the threat in front of them. Every single eye was glued to the 200 Northern lances and the towering wall of fire on the opposite bank. The roaring of the flames and the violent river masked all other sounds.
They didn't hear me pull my massive frame out of the water.
I stepped onto the muddy southern bank, coming up directly behind the rear guard of the Gold Cloaks. The freezing river water dripped from my thick, cream-colored coat, instantly hissing and turning into thick clouds of steam as the heat inside my chest flared back to ward off the chill.
I walked slowly toward the gilded wheelhouse, my heavy paws sinking into the mud.
The men were so stunned by the standoff across the river they didn't even notice the shadow looming behind them.
No one noticed me until a single Gold Cloak, stationed near the back wheel of the carriage to keep an eye on the southern road, turned around to check their retreat path.
The man froze. All the blood drained from his face in a heartbeat. His spear slipped from his trembling hands, clattering loudly against the smooth river stones. He backed up, tripping over his own boots, and fell hard into the mud. He opened his mouth and let out his scream of terror.
The scream cut cleanly through the murmuring of the escort.
Ser Meryn Trant spun in his saddle. The Gold Cloaks jerked their horses around in a wild panic, drawing their swords with the loud ring of steel.
They turned to find a six-foot beast of scarred fur and glowing embers standing right in the middle of their formation.
I ignored the fifty armed men completely. They didn't matter. I took a slow, heavy step forward and stopped right beside the gilded wheelhouse. I placed my massive front paws against the wooden frame, the sheer weight of my body making the heavy carriage groan and tilt on its axles.
I lifted my head and leaned close to the open window.
Inside the carriage, Sandor Clegane was still pressed tightly into the corner, his hands over his ears, hyperventilating as he hid from the fire. But Sansa Stark was sitting up straight.
She turned her head. Through the window, surrounded by the terrified shouts of the Gold Cloaks and the billowing steam rising from my wet fur, she met my glowing amber eyes.