A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

they reached the banks of the Trident. The river had returned meekly to its accustomed channel, Arya saw, all its wet brown rage vanished with the rains.
It’s tired too
, she thought.
    Close by the water’s edge, they found some willows rising from a jumble of weathered rocks. Together the rocks and trees formed a sort of natural fort where they could hide from both river and trail. “Here will do,” the Hound said. “Water the horses and gather some deadwood for a fire.” When he dismounted, he had to catch himself on a tree limb to keep from falling.
    â€œWon’t the smoke be seen?”
    â€œAnyone wants to find us, all they need to do is follow my blood. Water and wood. But bring me that wineskin first.”
    When he got the fire going, Sandor propped up his helm in the flames, emptied half the wineskin into it, and collapsed back against a jut of moss-covered stone as if he never meant to rise again. He made Arya wash out the squire’s cloak and cut it into strips. Those went into his helm as well. “If I had more wine, I’d drink till I was dead to the world. Maybe I ought to send you back to that bloody inn for another skin or three.”
    â€œNo,” Arya said.
He wouldn’t, would he? If he does, I’ll just leave him and ride off
.
    Sandor laughed at the fear on her face. “A jest, wolf girl. A bloody jest. Find me a stick, about so long and not too big around. And wash the mud off it. I hate the taste of mud.”
    He didn’t like the first two sticks she brought him. By the time she found one that suited him, the flames had scorched his dog’s snout black all the way to the eyes. Inside the wine was boiling madly. “Get the cup from my bedroll and dip it half full,” he told her. “Be careful. You knock the damn thing over, I
will
send you back for more. Take the wine and pour it on my wounds. Think you can do that?” Arya nodded. “Then what are you waiting for?” he growled.
    Her knuckles brushed the steel the first time she filled the cup, burning her so badly she got blisters. Arya had to bite her lip to keep from screaming. The Hound used the stick for the same purpose, clamping it between his teeth as she poured. She did the gash in his thigh first, then the shallower cut on the back of his neck. Sandor coiled his right hand into a fist and beat against the ground when she did his leg. When it came to his neck, he bit the stick so hard it broke, and she had to find him a new one. She could see the terror in his eyes. “Turn your head.” She trickled the wine down over the raw red flesh where his ear had been, and fingers of brown blood and red wine crept over his jaw. He
did
scream then, despite the stick. Then he passed out from the pain.
    Arya figured the rest out by herself. She fished the strips they’d made of the squire’s cloak out of the bottom of the helm and used them to bind the cuts. When she came to his ear, she had to wrap up half his head to stop the bleeding. By then dusk was settling over the Trident. She let the horses graze, then hobbled them for the night and made herself as comfortable as she could in a niche between two rocks. The fire burned a while and died. Arya watched the moon through the branches overhead.
    â€œSer Gregor the Mountain,” she said softly. “Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei.” It made her feel queer to leave out Polliver and the Tickler. And Joffrey too. She was glad he was dead, but she wished she could have been there to see him die, or maybe kill him herself.
Polliver said that Sansa killed him, and the Imp
. Could that be true? The Imp was a Lannister, and Sansa . . .
I wish I could change into a wolf and grow wings and fly away
.
    If Sansa was gone too, there were no more Starks but her. Jon was on the Wall a thousand leagues away, but he was a Snow, and these different aunts and uncles the Hound wanted to sell her to, they weren’t Starks either. They weren’t
wolves
.
    Sandor moaned, and she rolled onto her side to look at him. She had left his name out too, she realized. Why had she done that? She tried to think of Mycah, but it was hard to remember what he’d looked like. She hadn’t known him long.
All he ever did was play at swords with me
. “The Hound,” she whispered, and, “
Valar morghulis
.” Maybe he’d be dead by morning . . .
    But when the pale dawn