Warm blood, smelling of rust, splashed across Arya's face, sticky and hot.
For a moment, she was dazed, unable to tell whether it belonged to the towering figure before her or to the men surrounding them, men who had once worn the armor of the North and had now become routed soldiers and bandits.
The flight north from King's Landing had been harder than she had imagined.
She headed toward the North, guided by memory and instinct, only to encounter one of the people she had once despised most along the way.
The Hound, Sandor Clegane.
For some reason, he had left King's Landing too, trailing nearby like a shadow she could not shake.
She had driven him away, cursed him, and pointed Needle at him.
But the man had merely looked at her with those brooding eyes, then continued following, neither too close nor too far.
Gradually, Arya had given up.
In the war-torn Riverlands, a fierce-looking, highly skilled "companion" could discourage some ill-intentioned stares, even if he had once been an enemy.
And so they traveled through the increasingly chaotic countryside, one ahead of the other, bound by a strange, silent understanding.
At last, they drew near the Green Fork.
The distinctive twin towers of the Twins were faintly visible on the distant horizon.
Once they crossed the river, they would be closer to the North.
A flicker of hope rose in Arya's heart.
But fear soon replaced it.
They came under attack from more than one band of routed soldiers.
From the scattered curses and conversations of those ragged, vicious-eyed soldiers, Arya pieced together news that nearly stopped her heart:
Her brother Robb, the King in the North, had been... defeated in the decisive battle against House Targaryen in the Riverlands.
His army had scattered, and the