A Wolf in Hand

Arya hurriedly named one of the criminal bands her father had once mentioned.

"The Brotherhood. Yes, them. Their leader is a man called Chayle."

"Then it seems you are telling the truth."

"Yes, my lord. Please let us go."

Ronan laughed. "Arya, you may be smarter than your father." He had no interest in continuing the girl's performance.

"What? Arya? I am Arry, a fisherman's boy."

"Arya Stark. Must I say your full name? And this one is the king's bastard, Gendry. Am I wrong?"

Arya had not expected him to know her. She had almost no impression of him.

While she was trying to understand how this man knew who she was, Gendry suddenly exclaimed, "You are Lord Ronan, the double champion from the tourney."

"Gendry," Arya said, "this is not the time to make friends. He will not let you go easily."

Ronan smiled. "Gendry, since you recognize me, I will spare you once. You may leave." Arya could hardly believe it.

Then she reacted quickly. "Lord Ronan, I recognize you too. Let me go with him."

"Very well."

"Truly?"

For a moment, both of them felt as though they were dreaming. Ronan's next words froze their faces.

"Although I have little desire to catch either of you, it would be improper to meet you and bring back no one. So here is your chance. One of you leaves, one of you stays. Discuss it yourselves. Three seconds. If you do not choose, I take both."

"Three. Two. One."

Thud. Arya kicked Gendry away. It was clumsy, but the girl's intent was not hard to see.

If the king's bastard was taken, he would be killed on the spot. If Arya was taken, she likely would not die. House Stark still stood behind her.

"Move."

"Rovyn, bring her a horse."

Arya looked startled. "You are not afraid I will ride away?"

"If you want your father dead, then run."

"You have no right to kill my father."

"Someone always will."

Ronan's words carried a weight Arya hated but could not ignore. They sounded absurd, but she did not want her own choice to cause her father's death. She had brought her father trouble many times before.

This time, she wanted to do something for him. The road had made her grow quickly.

Even when the horse's movement made her miserable, she clenched her teeth and endured it. Ronan noticed her trouble. Their horses drew level.

"Have you never ridden?"

It sounded almost like mockery, yet Arya answered without meaning to. "A little. Father found me a pony before."

For a noble girl, riding was not truly beyond reach. Arya's restlessness had made Eddard give in to such small requests more than once. If it had been Sansa, she might have spent her whole life in a carriage.

Seeing her situation, Ronan did not hesitate. He reached over and lifted her onto his own horse.

"What are you doing?"

Arya had never ridden this close to anyone outside her family. Embarrassment stiffened her more than fear.

"I did not know you could barely ride," Ronan said. "Continue like that and you will hurt yourself. I dislike problems, so this is simpler. Relax. You are a little girl. I will not harm you."

Arya resisted the unfamiliar closeness, but under Ronan's steady hold, struggling was useless. Fine, then.

At least the horse was calmer with him. They rode together in silence.

His mount was steadier and faster than the gold cloaks' horses, and his handling of the reins had the same clean precision Arya remembered from Syrio, though Ronan had none of Syrio's warmth or humor.

Soon, the stink of King's Landing rolled toward them again. Rovyn asked where they should go next.

"Back to the west barracks," Ronan said.

The western barracks stood farther from the Red Keep, which made it more suitable for keeping Arya.

On the way, two groups met by chance. On an ordinary day, one side would have yielded and passed. Today was different. The person approaching was the great King Joffrey.

Joffrey might not know Ronan well, but he certainly remembered Arya, the girl who had humiliated him. Enemies meeting on a narrow road rarely lacked fire.

Joffrey was no longer the weeping prince from before. He was king now, surrounded by white cloaks and soldiers. His mood brightened at once.

With one look from him, a lackey stepped forward to block Ronan's party. The man was a familiar face. If Ronan remembered correctly, he belonged to the City Watch and therefore now belonged to him.

The gold cloak recognized the man who had drenched the barracks in blood that morning and felt his heart tighten. With the king present, however, his courage grew.

"Lord Ronan, King Joffrey requires you to come forward."

Ronan looked toward the young man seated high in his litter. Joffrey looked back with undisguised contempt. When he saw Arya in Ronan's arms, that contempt sharpened into pleasure.

He immediately ordered the Kingsguard beside him to seize her. The white cloaks knew Ronan, but the king had spoken. They had to obey.

Ronan did not even glance at them. The Kingsguard had declined with every generation. If Jaime were present, perhaps Ronan would have shown restraint. Now?

"Get out of my way."

"Ronan, do you mean to defy King Joffrey's command?"

"King Joffrey?" Ronan laughed softly. "Tell him to say it himself."

His voice was loud enough that Joffrey certainly heard. The boy's face went red, white, and livid by turns, the sure signs of a tantrum.

Growing impatient, he snapped at the large man beside him. "Dog, go cut him down for me."

Sandor Clegane, called the Hound, was the bodyguard House Lannister had placed beside Joffrey. The prince had never addressed him kindly, but this public insult was worse than usual.

Sandor seemed not to hear it. He walked straight toward Ronan, his bulk forcing others aside.

"You. Down."

"Dog, and you endure even that?"

Ronan deliberately mocked him. The Hound did not grow angry. He only repeated himself.

"Down."

"Fine. I will play with you."

Ronan glanced down. "Arya, hold tight." After the warning, he slid from the horse and moved with sudden violence. His foot struck Sandor in the chest before the man could settle his stance.

Then Ronan drew and cut. One slash. Two. Three. Three linked cuts drove the Hound back step by step.

"Not bad," Ronan said. "Your reactions are quick. If it were any of those men, they would already be corpses."

His contempt swept across the white cloaks and landed, briefly, on Joffrey's ugly face. That was enough.

The kick and three cuts had left Sandor breathless. If he tried to take another exchange, he might choke on it.

Ronan had no intention of making things harder for him. In this, at least, the Hound was pitiful.

Yet pitiful men often carried hateful sins. That truth never changed. Ronan mounted again. Only a gold cloak too slow to understand still stood in the way.

Ronan kept the promise he had made that morning. Arya saw his brutality and cold decisiveness up close. Warm blood still dotted her face, metallic and nauseating.

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