Deep in a dim forest leagues from Riverrun, the air was thick with the scent of damp, rotting leaves. Moonlight struggled through the canopy, casting skeletal shadows across the mud.
"Come on, old man. You've got more than that tucked away in those rags, don't you?"
Raff the Sweetling let out a high, greedy cackle as he delivered a sharp kick to the backside of Ser Desmond Grell. The act drew a snarl of protest from Ser Robin Ryger.
"Boy!" Robin roared, his face flushed with indignation. "Ser Desmond is twice your age and ten times the man your father was. Show some respect for his years!"
Raff didn't apologize. Instead, he delivered a stinging backhand to Ryger's face. The crack of flesh on flesh echoed through the trees. "I don't even know who my father was, and I care less for his age. If you want to reach Maidenpool alive, you'll surrender every copper star in your pockets. Otherwise, I'll find a shallow hole for you here, and no one will ever hear you scream."
Robin shook with a silent fury, his knuckles white. "You wouldn't dare. Your mission is to deliver us to Lord Tarly. Without captives, you're just another deserter."
"Enough, Robin," Ser Desmond's voice rose, ancient and tired. He reached into a hidden pocket and produced two Silver Moons and a handful of copper stars. His hands shook as he held them out. "Ser Raff, you have already stripped us of our plate and our steel. This is all that remains. Surely it is enough for the road?"
Raff snatched the coins, his eyes gleaming like a cat's. He didn't intend to kill them—not yet. Ever since the news of his master Gregor Clegane's death at the hands of the Red Viper had reached Harrenhal, Raff and the other "Mountain's Men" had lost their edge. They were dogs without a leash, wary of pushing highborn knights too far. Who knew if these two might find a new patron at Maidenpool?
Raff swaggered back to his campfire, his laughter sharp and discordant.
"Cravens," Robin spat into the brush. He looked at his companion, his eye already swelling. "The Kingslayer gave us to these dogs as a final insult."
Desmond Grell sat back, his expression a mask of weary acceptance. He poked the dying embers of their small fire. "They are rabid curs, Robin. You cannot expect a beast to act like a knight."
The forest grew still as the night deepened. Raff and his men were soon snoring, their bellies full of stolen wine. Desmond, a light sleeper in his dotage, heard the subtle crush-hiss of movement in the tall grass.
He stiffened. He reached out and placed a hand over Robin's mouth, then shook him awake. Robin's eyes went wide, but he caught the warning in Desmond's gaze. He nodded slowly, following the older man's lead: they rolled onto their bellies, hands over their heads, staying as low as the mud would allow.
In a heartbeat, the darkness erupted.
Thrum-snap! Thrum-snap! The sharp whistles of crossbow bolts tore the silence. Puth-puth. The shafts buried themselves in the chests and throats of Raff's men. Screams of agony shattered the peace. Some tried to rise, but black shadows surged from the treeline, steel flashing in the moonlight.
"Enemy! To arms!" one of the sellswords shrieked, but his throat was opened before he could find his sword. Within minutes, the camp was silent again, save for the crackling fire and the wet gasps of the dying.
A massive figure strode into the light. He sat on a rock, his armor creaking. "Who are you two?"
"Captives," Desmond said calmly. "Losing our way to a ransom, it seems."
"Liar," the figure barked. "If you were merchants, they'd have taken your fingers first. Stand up. We're the Brotherhood. If you were those bastards' prisoners, you've nothing to fear from us."
The two knights stood, watching as a dozen warriors in blackened mail began the grim work of 'mercy-killing' the wounded enemies.
"Please... save me. I have coin!" Raff the Sweetling wheezed. A bolt was buried in his chest, and blood bubbled at his lips.
"Wayne, how many are left?" the massive leader asked.
"Three, Captain," a middle-aged knight replied, pausing his blade. "Shall I keep them?"
"Let them breathe until we have the truth."
The man named Wayne knelt by Raff. He wrenched the bolt from his chest. Suddenly, a pulse of golden light flickered from Wayne's palms. Raff groaned as the bleeding stopped, the jagged hole sealing into a raw, puckered scar. The other two survivors received the same minimal treatment.
Wayne slapped Raff's face. "You saw. I can mend you, or I can let you rot. Speak true, or you'll find out what the Light does to liars."
Raff blubbered, the fear of the miracle breaking his will. "The Kingslayer! He took us from Harrenhal for the siege! Riverrun has fallen... yielded to the Freys. Edmure Tully convinced the Blackfish to surrender, then the old fish vanished into the river."
The leader's brow furrowed. "Emmon Frey holds the castle? A toothless lapdog. It will be easier to take later, then."
"Who holds Harrenhal?"
"Ser Bonifer Hasty," Raff gasped. "A man of the Reach. He has his 'Holy Hundred' there. He didn't want us."
"The Holy Hundred," Wayne mused, his voice turning serious. "Hard men to break."
"And the Kingslayer?"
"Gone to Raventree Hall with the Westermen. The Freys went back to the Twins. The Riverlords... they all went home."
"Goodbrook," the leader cut in. "Which way did they go?"
"They left two days after us. I don't know the road!"
"I know it, Captain Sandor," a scout called out. "I know the path from Riverrun to Blue-Wave Keep."
Raff's eyes bulged. "Sandor? Captain? You... you look like the Hound. But it's impossible. The Hound's face was a ruin."
Sandor Clegane offered a terrifying grin. He didn't confirm or deny. He simply drove a fist into Raff's face, knocking the sellsword senseless.
"Tomorrow," Sandor grunted, "he'll wake up looking worse than I ever did."
The camp was organized with a discipline the two Tully knights hadn't seen since the start of the war. Sandor sat by the fire, roasting a potato on a sharpened stick.
"You are Sandor Clegane," Ser Desmond stated, sitting across from him.
Sandor didn't look up from the flames.
"I saw you at King's Landing when I accompanied Duke Hoster," Desmond continued. "You were always at the Prince's shoulder."
"The Prince is in a crypt," Sandor rasped. "He doesn't need a shadow anymore."
"Then you aren't truly of the Brotherhood. Who do you serve?"
"A good man," Sandor said, touching his unscarred cheek.
Desmond Grell shook his head. "Good men don't last in the Riverlands. I am Desmond Grell, Master-at-Arms of Riverrun. This is Robin Ryger. We were bound for the Wall, but now... we have no jailers, yet we have no way to explain our survival to the Lords."
Sandor took a bite of the scorched potato. "Tell them a giant dog bit their heads off. I'm sure Lord Tarly will find you a boat for the Wall regardless."
"I saw your man use the Light," Desmond whispered. "I saw your face. I've heard of these miracles. A man named Aldric Cerese."
Sandor paused, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "You know him?"
"He stayed outside Riverrun after the first siege. He mended the broken and fed the hungry. He is hard to forget."
"So? What do you want?"
"The Wall is a long way, and the wind there skins a man's face," Desmond said softly. "I've had enough of cold graves. If the Hound serves this Lightbringer, perhaps an old Master-at-Arms could find a place at his table as well."
Sandor looked at Wayne, his lieutenant. Wayne shrugged. "The Master refuses no friends, though our pay is poor and our pottage is thin."
"A roof and a purpose are enough," Desmond replied.
Sandor nodded. "Fine. You ride with us tomorrow. When this hunt is done, we'll see if the Lightbringer has a seat for two more ghosts."
70+ chapters are available now and daily updates! @patreon.com/zefyrus