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Night had fallen over King's Landing, yet the city still thrummed with life.
In peacetime there was no curfew, so the streets remained loud and lively well after dark.
Arthur took his six-man retinue out to enjoy the evening.
Not far from the Steel Inn stood a well-known tavern famous for its excellent pale ale.
It was called the Gold Deer. The only real flaw was the price—otherwise it had no shortcomings.
In the old Targaryen days it had been named the Gold Dragon, but the owner had wisely changed the sign to a massive black stag the moment Robert took the throne.
The pretty serving girls grew noticeably warmer the moment they spotted Arthur's party.
Noble guests who arrived with six armed men were guaranteed to spend heavily.
"Best ale and all the house specialties!" Wylis ordered.
The girl flashed a bright smile. "Right away, my lords! Fried smelt, roasted lamb chops, oxtail soup—the full spread."
"Isn't this a bit expensive, young master Arthur?" Lothor Brune said, clearly uncomfortable. Their new lord was being far too generous.
"Yeah, young master," Clarence agreed. "A common tavern would do. This place is known for its high prices."
Good ale cost real coin. Across the Narrow Sea it fetched prices close to Arbor gold.
The three hedge knights had not yet earned a single copper for their new master.
Arthur's casual display of wealth had already left them dizzy.
When building a loyal crew, the first rule was to feed them well and treat them better.
Arthur glanced back at his three new retainers. "You three need to drop that black-bread-and-water habit. Beer and lobster will fill your bellies just as well."
"Hahaha!" Wylis burst out laughing.
The seven of them claimed a large round table. The barkeep brought over rich pale ale, fried potato strips, smelt, and sizzling lamb chops.
"More ale over here!" a rough voice suddenly bellowed from the long bar. "Who's making all that noise? Ruining my drink!"
The speaker was an odd sight—clearly rich enough to drink here, yet sitting alone.
"My lord, shall we go teach him some manners?" Lothor Brune muttered.
Drunken brawls in taverns were common. As long as no one died, everything was fine.
All three new men were eager to prove themselves and offer their first token of loyalty.
The lone drinker turned his head and looked straight at Arthur.
"Never seen me before? I'm a stranger in these parts," the man growled. He wore ash-gray armor and towered over everyone.
His hideous hound-shaped helm lay carelessly on the bar beside him.
Long hair covered half his burned face.
It was Sandor Clegane—the Hound, younger brother of Ser Gregor "the Mountain."
Sandor carried two weapons: a longsword on his left hip and a dagger on his right.
"Only in King's Landing can you step out for a drink and run straight into the Hound," Arthur thought wryly.
The city truly was the ultimate random-encounter hub.
"Looks like fate," Ser Lucas murmured.
It was pure chance, but it fit the Hound's habits perfectly.
Sandor traveled alone and loved no one.
The Lannisters paid him well, so he spent it all on food, drink, and women.
Collect wages, win tourney purses, then drink and whore it all away.
During the Hand's Tourney he would win forty thousand gold dragons and blow every copper on ale.
The timing matched too.
Ever since the Mountain inherited the family seat, Sandor had fled to the Lannisters as a household knight.
With Joffrey Baratheon newly born, Lord Tywin had recently brought the Hound to King's Landing to serve as the prince's personal guard.
In a twisted way, the Hound probably spent more time with Joffrey than the boy's own drunken father ever did.
"Too loud!" Sandor stood up, tall and massive.
He was powerfully built.
At sixteen he was already close to six feet and still growing. One day he would top six and a half.
"You know who I am?" Arthur asked calmly.
"I know your name, Bat Knight—Arthur Whent. Your fame's spreading fast these days. Champion of the Dragonstone squire tourney, handsome as they come," the Hound grinned, the scarred half of his face twisting grotesquely.
"Same here, Ser Sandor," Arthur replied.
"I'm no ser. Knights are all liars and hypocrites!" the Hound shot back.
Sandor hated knights almost as much as his brother did.
Even a monster like the Mountain carried the title of "ser."
"Want your little bats to bite me?" The Hound glanced at Arthur's guards with casual contempt.
The tavern girls flinched.
One was a Lannister household knight, the other the heir of House Whent.
If these two started swinging, the inn would be caught in the middle.
"No, not them," Arthur said. "If anyone fights, it'll be the two of us. But tonight we're not fighting—we're drinking."
"Ah, so the Dragonstone squire champion wants a round," the Hound rumbled, setting his cup down.
"I wouldn't have won if you'd been there," Arthur said honestly.
He meant it. Among all the men born in the 270s, the only one who could truly match him in raw talent right now was the Hound himself. A real fight between them would have been too close to call.
"I'm four or five years older. Beating a boy your age wouldn't be much to boast about. You've already proved yourself, little bat. Me? I killed my first man at twelve." The Hound took another long pull of ale. "We'll cross blades one day. Tourney purses are worth winning, after all."
"I look forward to learning from you," Arthur said.
"Drink?" Arthur slid onto the stool beside the towering man.
"Why not?" The Hound's scarred mouth twisted into something like a smile.
The two of them drank pale ale together, talking of nothing but the simple pleasure of good beer.
"I'm off, little bat," the Hound said after a few cups, rising to leave for the Red Keep.
"Until next time," Arthur replied, watching the huge man walk away.
"What a build," Ser Lucas muttered. "Pure muscle."
"I'd only ever heard how terrifying the Mountain was. Seems his brother is just as monstrous. In your age group he may be the only one who can truly stand beside you," the knight added.
Tywin really had struck gold.
His household knights included four absolute monsters: the Kingslayer, the Mountain, the Hound, and Strongboar.
"Poor bastard," Arthur said quietly, then turned back to his own table and raised his cup.
Sad stories and hollow nights.
Arthur had no interest in recruiting the Hound. The man was a Lannister household knight through and through. He would only leave when the lions had nothing left to offer.
The Mountain was a raging psychopath. The Hound was simply a loner.
He wandered alone, never built a crew of his own.
He took no wife, fathered no children.
The Lannisters paid well. The Hound could have lived like any other man.
But he despised knightly vows and noble rules, and he had no interest in land or power.
His only real pleasures were eating, drinking, and waiting for death.
Compared to him, the Mountain was a true monster who commanded his own band of savage "beast soldiers," Tywin's favorite tools for burning and slaughter.
One look at the lions and their dogs told the same story: broken men spending their whole lives trying to heal childhood wounds.