"Please, spare me! My Lord, I am a soldier, a good soldier! I can fight for you!"
The man tied to the towering ash tree was a garish sight. His clothes were a riot of clashing colors, though now they were shredded and caked in filth. His hair had been dyed a neon shade of red and green that stung the eyes in the morning sun. Despite looking like a Qohorik sellsword, he spoke with the thick, unmistakable drawl of a Riverlands native.
Around him stood several battle-worn warriors. Their clothes were rags, their faces etched with the scars of a long winter, but their steel was sharp and their eyes were full of contempt for the prisoner.
The air hung heavy with the copper tang of blood and damp earth. From the distant treeline, a lone bird chirped, oblivious to the judgment under the tree.
"I didn't ask for your resume," the leader barked. He was a middle-aged man with a voice like grinding stones. He fixed the prisoner with a gaze as cold as a mountain stream. "Tell me where your pack has run, and I'll consider giving you a clean end."
"I don't know! I swear by the stars!" the captive wailed, pulling at the hemp ropes until his wrists were raw. "Timon, that bastard, he took my horse and left me in this rot-hole village! He didn't say a word! How could I know where he went?"
Before the sentence was finished, a tall youth in heavy plate stepped forward. He swung a riding crop with a crack, catching the prisoner across the cheek.
"Rot-hole?" the youth roared, his eyes burning. "A week ago, this was a place of peace! If it weren't for you Mummers—you bastards, you dregs—!" He clenched his fist until the leather groaned. "Speak! Tell the truth, or I'll ensure your death takes until the next moon!"
The prisoner's voice broke into a terrified sob. "I... I truly don't know! Timon talked about Braavos, but I don't know why or how. Wait—wait! Two nights ago at supper, he said the supplies wouldn't last to King's Landing. He said we couldn't loot the capital, so we had to make one last circle of the Trident first. They're nearby! My Lord, give me a horse and a chance to earn my life. I know their habits. I can lead you to them!"
The older leader, Rand, frowned. He looked at the youth beside him. "Kevin, what do you think?"
Kevin, the tall warrior, let out a derisive snort. He looked at the man dressed as a Qohorik and sneered. "He wants a horse? I wouldn't trust a man who dyes his hair to find his own boots. We know it was Timon's crew. We'll find them ourselves."
Rand nodded, his mind made up. He turned to the other soldiers. "Hang him."
"Yes, Captain Rand."
The outlaws turned their backs on the howling prisoner and walked toward the blackened ruins of the village.
This nameless hamlet had once been a vital supply point for Rand's squad of the Brotherhood. Even now, closing his eyes, Rand could see the ghost of it: children chasing each other through the dirt, women washing by the well, elders gossiping in the shade. Now, it was a charcoal sketch of despair.
Smoke still drifted from the ruins, weaving through the gray sky. The air was thick with the stench of charred timber and the heavy, sweet rot of death. Ravens circled above, their shadows flickering over the twisted remains of wooden hovels.
"Harrenhal has been retaken by the Mountain," Rand sighed, his voice heavy with worry. "But it only pushed the Mummers out into the open. The nearby villages are going to bleed again."
"Aye," Kevin agreed, his gaze hard. "We'll have to ride harder."
They entered the center of the ruins. A scout ran up to them. "Captain, Kevin... we've searched two leagues out. We found a few villagers who didn't run fast enough. No survivors."
Rand nodded somberly. "The graves?"
"Dug. We were just waiting for Kevin to speak for their souls."
Kevin walked to the edge of the clearing where the fresh earth had been turned. He knelt, pulling a handful of white wildflowers from his belt. He laid them on the mound as a soft, golden radiance rippled from his palm onto the petals.
"May Anshe watch over you," he whispered. "May you find the warmth the world denied you, and a home in the Light that never ends."
The soldiers stood in a solemn circle. No one spoke. Only the wind whistled through the scorched rafters, accompanied by the occasional croak of a crow.
The Brotherhood had learned of the chaos at Harrenhal during their last interrogation.
Not long ago, the Northmen holding the castle had followed Lord Roose Bolton to the Twins for a wedding. As a reward for his treachery, Harrenhal had been left to Vargo Hoat and his "Brave Companions." But the "Goat" had met his match in a high-born captive; she had bitten off his ear, leading to a fever that left him delirious and helpless.
Without their leader, the hundred Mummers inside the walls had lost their nerve. When word reached them that the "Lord of Leeches" was escorting Jaime Lannister to the capital as a peace offering to Lord Tywin, the sellswords knew their time was up. Fearing the Lannister retribution, they packed their loot and abandoned their sick captain, scattering into the woods.
The Mummers were a brotherhood of the damned, split into factions. Urswyck, Zollo, Timon, Tog Joth, and the newcomer Rorge had each taken a handful of men and fled in different directions. But without a unified command, they were just small bands of predators being hunted by local lords and the Brotherhood.
Two days later, Rand stood on a patch of scorched grass, inspecting a dead campfire. His scouts, former hunters for House Whent, knelt in the dirt.
"The soil is still damp beneath the ash," one scout noted. "They passed through this morning."
"They're in a hurry," the other added, pointing to a trampled thicket. "They didn't even try to hide the trail. They're running scared."
Rand unsheathed his sword. "Track them."
Two hours later, near the Crossroads Inn, the scout Wike rode back in a gallop. "Captain! A dozen Mummers are hitting a village ahead. The smallfolk are holding them at the fence under some rider's lead, but they won't last long!"
Rand didn't hesitate. "Brotherhood! With me!"
They reached the perimeter in ten minutes. The air was a cacophony of screams and the thunder of hooves. A dozen Mummers were charging a wooden palisade that had already been breached. Inside, several bandits were already hacking at anything that moved.
At the gap in the fence, a massive man in a dog-head helm sat atop a black destrier, fending off three attackers at once. His horse was as vicious as its master, biting at the enemy mounts and kicking with iron-shod hooves. The villagers stood behind him with sharpened poles and hoes, their faces masks of terror and rage, stabbing at the bandits' chests and horses.
"Brotherhood, charge!" Rand bellowed.
Kevin led the wedge, his Light-Forged armor gleaming like a second sun. Behind him, the outlaws—farmers and hunters who had traded plows for blades a year ago—let out a roar that shook the trees.
The skirmish was short and brutal. Caught between the villagers and the relief force, the Mummers were cut down to a man.
Kevin reined in his horse, "Swiftfish," and trotted over to the man in the dog-head helm. He looked at the scarred, burnt face beneath the visor. "Sandor Clegane?"
The Hound narrowed his eyes, his voice a low growl. "Aldric Cerese?"
Kevin pulled off his helm, revealing his blonde hair and steady gaze. "That was my teacher. He's the one who put you in the dirt at Winterfell."
Kevin didn't wait for a reply. He dismounted and began moving toward the wounded villagers. The Brotherhood had arrived in time to save the village, but many of the defenders were bleeding in the mud.
As Kevin began to press his glowing hands to the torn flesh of a farmer, he noticed a gray-robed old man already at work on the other side of the square. The man's hands moved with a practiced, solemn grace, leaving trails of soft light in their wake.
"May the Light of Anshe warm the soil?" Kevin asked, testing the greeting.
The old man looked up, surprised. "You walk the Sun as well?"
"I am Kevin Turner, disciple of the Lightbringer."
The old man's eyes crinkled with joy. "I know you. I saw you behind the Master at the Great Conclave. I am Septon Ray. I took the Seed at St. Maur's and found my Awakening in the ruins. Come, lad. There is much work to be done."
While they worked, the Hound moved through the fallen Mummers, delivering the "mercy" of his blade to any still breathing. His movements were cold and mechanical.
"Septon Ray," Kevin whispered as he mended a broken arm. "How did Sandor Clegane end up with you?"
Ray looked at the big man and sighed. "I found him by the Trident. He was a ruin of a man, covered in his own blood and screaming at the sky. He begged for death, but I have sworn an oath never to take a life again. Instead, I washed the fever from his brow and put oil on his burns. I didn't know who he was then—only that he was a soldier. In this world, the line between a 'good' man and a 'bad' man is as thin as a hair. But what if he could be a brother?"
The Septon paused. "I used the Light to keep the rot away, but I let the wounds heal slow. I brought him back on his horse—Stranger, he called it. A blasphemous name. We call it Driftwood now. It has the temper of its master."
Ray's voice dropped. "He was delirious for weeks. He told me stories... terrible things. He cursed the heavens, cursed his name, cursed his blood. He served the Prince, and he hates the pride that service gave him. He fights, but finds no joy in victory. He drinks to forget he has a heart. He dreams of only one thing: killing his brother. It is a thought so dark it makes me shiver."
Ray finished with his patient and looked at Kevin. "He is a man of sin, but he is not a man of evil. Like his sigil, he is a good hound. His nature depends on the hand that holds the leash. So I chose to save him. To give him a home."
Kevin watched the Hound finish his grisly task. He saw the pity in the Septon's eyes and felt a flicker of it himself. "Sandor Clegane," he muttered. "A man whose fate was never his own."
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