The mountain forests of the Vale were deeper and denser than Arya had imagined.
Five days had passed since she escaped from the Eyrie.
In those five days, she and the Hound had crossed several stream valleys, skirted two villages, and avoided a party flying the red banners of House Lannister.
Her clothes had several tears, her boots were full of mud, and Needle hung at her waist, still stained with the blood of last night's unlucky rabbit.
It had been her first hot meal in five days.
But that hot meal had come at a price. The traces of their campfire had drawn pursuers.
Now she crouched behind a moss-covered boulder, listening to footsteps in the woods.
Six men. At least six sets of armor scraped and rattled, with metal occasionally striking stone.
"They've caught up," Arya whispered.
The Hound leaned against a tree trunk, far too calm. Even his breathing had not quickened.
He gave a casual reply. "Mm."
Arya glared at him. "There are six of them, and they're wearing armor!"
The Hound did not answer.
He listened for a moment, mapping their positions by sound: two in front, four behind, unevenly spaced. The last man dragged his feet, trailing seven or eight paces behind the others.
He could finish them all in short order.
But he had no intention of doing so.
He glanced at Arya beside him. Her body was rigid with tension.
This girl spent two months locked in a tower at the Eyrie. How much of what I taught her has she absorbed?
Actual combat was the best test.
He would not waste this opportunity.
"Five now," The Hound said, suddenly darting out of the shade.
Arya did not even see how he struck. She heard only a dull thud before the foremost