The Game of Cyvasse

And she never wanted to leave

Arya dreamt of Nymeria and blood seeping from the auburn sky when the Hound snatched her from the cave; bringing throbbing pain to her brow as brawny hands lifted her as easily as a sack of wheat. She screamed, disturbing half the men of the Brotherhood, but the Hound's great charger was swifter than sound. The full moon illuminated the entrance, and Arya saw no rescue emerging from it. Not again, a desperate thought blazed within her.

At first, she writhed a bit, to no avail; his left hand was too strong a noose around her chest. The cold touch of rusted armor brought shivers through her clothes, biting like fangs on his war helm.

"We must go back," she yelled at the dog helm, but no voice came from the closed jaw, only moonlight playing a game of shadows on the iron surface, making the ugly helm even more sinister. Harwin had told her she was soon to go home, to Mother and Robb; all arrangements had been made. "I'll kill you," she furiously battered the mailed hand, only to feel the sting of pain itching her skin.

"If you could, I'd be more scared of the big shit I took last morning. Shut your mouth, it's easier for both of us," the Hound barked. "Cravens took my coin, Little Bird. Either I fight through their damned lot for the return of my purse, or I turn you into a purse."

Turn me into a purse, Arya was confused for a moment, only to grasp the Hound's words, "You're planning to sell me out." Three masks dissolved from Arya's face; she was no longer the orphan boy Arry, nor a weasel from the kitchens, but Arya Stark, the daughter of late Lord Eddard. The Lannisters had wanted her since she escaped King's Landing with Yoren, and at Harrenhal, she came dead close to capture. One death still remains to me, one name Jaqen owes. Chiswyck, Weese, and... no one. But Jaqen had marched out with the rest of the Lannister forces before she could name a third. It should have been Tywin, or Cersei, or Joffrey. I was so foolish.

"Aye, fool of me to think the ginger was the smarter sister," the Hound rasped an insult, refusing to look Arya in the face, instead gazing at the gloomy woodland road, a dark serpent coiling upon the ground.

"Sansa is auburn, not ginger," Arya spat back without thinking.

"Like if bloody matters. Now be silent; the long road is ahead of us. I'll not allow your shitty whining."

"I am not going back to King's Landing," she was determined. Even dogs sleep, she reminded herself, when he does, I'll hit him with a stone, dent that ugly helm right into his skull. Every man bleeds, every man dies.

"Who the fuck mentioned King's Landing?" The Hound seemed irritated and rested at the same time. Just like in the cave, the Clegane brother had a stupid reply for anything, always thinking himself smarter beyond the dumb brute he was. Arya knew his lot all too well.

"I am not a fool; I know whom you serve, Joffrey. The Lannisters are paying for my head." The words of House Lannister were so well-known that Maester Luwin didn't need a book to teach her about their lineage. A rich house, the richest in the realm. And when the details came later, they proved interesting enough that she quickly absorbed the requested knowledge. The sister is the queen, the elder brother a Kingsguard who slew the king, and the younger a dwarf. After meeting them, Arya would have preferred if they remained mere words on Maester Luwin's slow tongue. Cersei-a name she was destined to cross.

The Hound laughed, making her uncomfortable. His laughs was strange, a mix of rasp and heavy breathing; he must do it so rarely that it pained him. "The Lannisters are more concerned with keeping their own heads now, Little Bird. And Joffrey," the Hound's laughter now turned sweet, "the one-time cunt took a sword for real, he lost; to a crippled king."

The Dragon King won, Arya finally took the full meaning; Joffrey had lost the throne. Half of her list must be gone. "Why are you not dead? A dog should die alongside his master."