The Hound's brow furrowed as he fixed his gaze on Ser Harys Haigh. His voice was a low, dangerous rasp. "You know me?"
Ser Harys smirked, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Hard to forget. At the Hand's Tourney, I crossed lances with you in the first tilt. I lost a suit of fine mail to you that day."
"Oh, it was you." Sandor let out a short, jagged bark of laughter. "The wine I bought with that scrap-iron was strong enough to make me retch for two days. I suppose I should thank you for the hangover."
Harys shrugged. "My apologies. Tell me, who are you hunting in these woods? Dondarrion's outlaws?"
"No. Mummers," Sandor grunted, his eyes darkening at the mention of the Brave Companions. "They were kicked out of Harrenhal and decided to play at being lions. They crossed my master a few days ago."
Harys's eyes lingered on Sandor's face—the skin was smooth, pale, and entirely whole. "And your face? What happened to the ruin you used to carry?"
Sandor rubbed his jaw. "A miracle from the Seven. Turns out, visiting a septry is good for more than just a nap."
Harys snorted. "I never heard Sandor Clegane was a man of the Faith. Who is this master who pays well enough to fix a face and arm a troop of horse?"
"Quincy Cox of Saltpans," Sandor lied easily, leaning back in his saddle. "A useless old man, but he has deep pockets when it comes to keeping his grandsons' heads on their shoulders."
"I heard Saltpans was ash," Ser Arwood Frey cut in, his voice as dry as parchment.
Sandor spared him a glance. "Nothing left but the keep and the dead. Someone should have mended those walls years ago."
Arwood's eyes glinted with greed. "Incompetent Lords are a rot. They'll be replaced soon enough once Lord Petyr arrives at Harrenhal."
"You talk of Saltpans as if it's for sale," Sandor countered. "Talk to the old man if you want his dirt. I'm just the steel he hired. But touch him, and you touch my purse. I don't like losing coin."
"Of course," Arwood said, dismissing the threat. "We are bound for Castle Darry. Lord Tywin gave the lands to Lancel Lannister, and Ser Kevan has decided the boy needs a wife. We're escorting Amere Frey to her wedding."
"Gatehouse Ami?" Sandor's lip curled into a sneer. "I've heard of her. Kevan Lannister chose a 'generous' wife for his son. I hear she opens her gates for any knight who knocks."
"Mind your tongue, dog!" Ser Donnel Haigh snapped, his face turning a mottled red. "The Lady Amere is highborn. You'll speak of her with respect or not at all."
"I remember you too, Donnel," Sandor laughed. "At the tourney, I nearly put a spear through your chest. Is the wound still tender?"
"Enough!" Harys barked, stepping between them. "Sandor, word is you turned craven at the Blackwater and fled the King. People say you lost your nerve. Is that why you're leading this rabble?"
"I'm no leader," Sandor said. "I'm a sword for hire. My Commander is a man named Aldric."
"He must pay better than the Lannisters," Harys noted, eyeing the Sun-Steel plate and the disciplined formation of the Dawn riders.
"Tywin is cold in the ground," Sandor said flatly. "He isn't paying anyone anymore."
The sun was dipping toward the horizon, staining the sky the color of dried blood. The Frey archers still had their strings taut, and the Dawn cavalry remained locked in a tight wedge, fingers twitching on their spear-hafts.
"There's a village a league ahead," Arwood proposed. "Why stay on the road like brigands? Let's share a hearth and talk of better days."
Sandor hesitated. He needed to know the Frey strength in the area. "Lead the way."
They turned onto a weed-choked path leading to a cluster of fifty hovels. At the sight of eighty armed men, the few peasants working the dirt dropped their hoes and fled into the woods, screaming.
"Should I bring them back, Ser?" Donnel asked with a cruel grin.
"For what?" Sandor asked.
"To serve us, of course. What else are peasants for?"
"Let them go," Sandor commanded, his voice brooking no argument.
The village was a shell. Roofs were caved in, and windows were jagged holes. The Frey men began kicking in doors, tossing furniture into the street in a frantic search for anything worth stealing.
Mark, a Sunwalker sergeant, pulled his horse alongside Sandor. "Captain... what are they doing?"
"Searching for ghosts," Sandor sighed. "If there was gold here, it would be in a castle, not a mud hut. Let them play at being thieves. It's all they know."
The Dawn warriors watched the Frey levies with visible disgust. Discipline and belief had separated them from the common soldier; they were no longer part of the same world.
Night fell, and the village was lit by scattered campfires. In the small, dilapidated sept, Arwood's squires had cleared the benches to make a table. They served salt-beef and skins of thin, sour wine.
"I heard the Imp fought with a warhammer at the Mud Gate," Harys said, chewing on a piece of leathery meat.
"Aye," Sandor replied. "The hammer was taller than he was. He looked like a mad gnome."
"I'd have loved to see it," Arwood mused, drinking deeply. "But the war is won now. My House saw to that at the Twins. The Young Wolf won't be howling anymore."
"I heard he turned into a beast at the feast," Donnel added. "That he grew the head of a wolf and tore out the throats of his own men. The Old Gods are demons, I say."
Sandor nearly choked on his wine, laughing until he wheezed. Arwood, realizing the conversation was turning sour, changed the subject. "That gear your men carry... it's too fine for a hedge knight's pay. Who is this Aldric truly?"
"The Lightbringer," Sandor said, setting down his cup. "He mends what the Lords break."
"The one who healed the Northmen at Riverrun?" Arwood's eyes widened. "I remember a sergeant of mine paid ten moons to have a gut-wound closed by him. A shame he and Stark fell out, or my Uncle Stevron might still be alive."
"Stevron? Walder's heir?" Sandor asked. "Who's next in line for that nest of rats now?"
"Ser Ryman, likely. Though Black Walder has his own ideas. Whoever takes the Twins, they'll kick the rest of us out into the cold soon enough."
The drinking continued until the small hours. Just as they were preparing to sleep on the hard benches, a woman's shriek pierced the silence. It was followed by the sound of shouting and the rhythmic thud of clubs.
Sandor was the first out the door.
In the mud outside a nearby hut, the Dawn warriors had formed a semi-circle, their staves held low. They were protecting a pale, trembling girl. Opposite them, a group of Frey levies stood with clubs, their faces red with drunken rage.
"Donnel! These bastards struck us!" one of the soldiers shouted as the knights emerged.
"Frey men have no shame?" Mark, the Dawn sergeant, spat. "You tried to ravish this girl. Why don't you tell your master that?"
"Ravish?" the soldier sneered. "She crawled into my hut! Besides, I have silver. I'd have paid her."
Mark looked at the girl, then back at the knight. "This is her house you're sleeping in. This is her bread you're eating. She was hiding in the cellar and came out for food. You caught her and tried to take her like a dog. Ravishment is a capital crime under the Light."
Sandor looked at Donnel Haigh. "Your discipline is as poor as your lance-work, Ser."
Donnel, his eyes glassy with wine, stumbled forward. He looked at the girl's face. "She's just a peasant. Pay her and be done with it. What's the fuss?"
He reached out a hand toward her. "Stop the noise. Bring her to my room. I'll see she's handled."
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