Nearly all the morning they descended a slow and sloping valley. Fog hung off the ground, smoking just below the horses's saddle. Everything below them disappeared. Old oaks and ghost vines sailed past, chopped off by the mist, and the girl was enchanted and said so, many times over- look! It's so lovely, are you even looking? -but gradually the spell of the grey smoke sea and the horse rolling steadily though waves captured her, and they rode in a long line of pure quiet.

In the peace his thoughts crawled out from beneath his worries and scattered free: where to find a farrier who can mind his own business; the way a featherbed crackles when you crawl into it; fried dough with gravy; the sound of the girl breathing; does Gregor's steward still live; who among the Kingsguard belongs to Joff now- Moore, probably; that miserable shit, luck to him with that- when the girl stirred and looked back at him.

"We'd best not stop at inns any longer, hadn't we." Her tone was casual but he heard the tang of dismay beneath it. "And we have so far to go."

He hummed under his breath. "Bound to be villages behind the crossroads and they'll have food. We'll take care. I might find a boy to bring us whatever we can buy. Most likely be turnips, so resign yourself now."

"You might find a boy," she repeated tonelessly. "What happens to him after?"

"I'll mind that," he said.

"I don't believe you will, much," she said, faintly.

The Hound glared down at her. "What?"

"You don't mind it. You didn't mind that other boy. Arya's friend."

He snarled. "That was a command. You don't know how it is. And I saw you at that tourney they held for your father. Starred eyes, you had. Watched as my brother killed a boy right in front of you, didn't you? If you did pay any mind yourself, it was to that flower you were holding. I saw you. So don't start at me about how I am."

"I do mind. I did mind, about that boy. But- it was different.." Her voice faltered.

"Like shit it was different. I'll tell you the difference: I did as the queen commanded and Gregor does as he pleases. Tourney or no. Dig up the boy and ask him if he thinks banners and some high lords watching made it different; I'll put a wager on the answer you'll get."

She snorted. "What the Queen pleased seemed to suit you, too."

He laughed at her, derisive. "Did it, now. The Queen hardly ever got what she pleased, and if she'd had it all her way I'd have chopped up the lot of you. Why do you think her lord father chose me for her? He didn't want her hand on a sword. A pretty knight would've soon found himself with a loose grip."

It was the truth. It was best that Cersei had taken one good look at him and found that was enough for her. She, a torch burning in the dark hallways of the Rock, could've led him to anything if she'd tried. He could see his boyhood self standing in wait, dark against the dark, at her service.

But there had been no offers, no sweetness; the little queen had merely put out her golden hand and he had lain beneath it. Queen's dog, the other young men called him, the name straddling the line between debasement and honor, and because it had the glint of a truth it stuck: what the Queen desired of him was his basest nature. She took his whole raw anger in hand like a lash and used it without qualm. He was spared its responsibility, she was spared its weight, and this shared exoneration bound them together. This intimacy far outweighed that of watching over her bedchamber. She owned him, used him; in doing so the core of herself was laid bare to him. It was the price, to see her at her worst. He couldn't hide what he thought of her and did not try to lie. He'd watched other men beat like drums for that. Somehow he had not been. Somehow he'd been the one to give the beatings. Somehow, she and he maintained their understanding.

Still, Cersei was often denied, and not by him. Her whim and his ferocity had a common whip: her father remained master of them both. Only to the Hound was his authority welcome. That rigorous restraint bestowed both order and, if followed, a certain safety. And no one could deny that the same golden hand he'd lain beneath had also lifted him up. What did it matter what the other men called him? He'd been named a dog, but they themselves were bred; a passel of expendable lesser Lannisters; well-bred, the bite bred right out of them. In the yard he ran through them like reeds. Small wonder that his Lord had looked outward to protect the family. It was unquestionably an honor. His honor. And a compensation remained that, whatever the Hound had committed, still it was Gregor who was called to do the worst.

"Oh, the lot of us? How nice, then, that you aren't a pretty knight." the girl muttered.

He snarled and tossed his head. "Be a lot different if I were, wouldn't it? You'd be beside yourself thinking up witless things to say to me." He eyed her. "But let me tell you a secret. That fool who gave you the flower may be fine to look at from your tourney seat, but no closer. There might be pretty men, but no pretty knights."

She lifted her chin. It was flushed red. "He was- always good and true- "

He laughed at her. "A good killer, and a true one? Certainly. And that's all. I'm tired of this. Get it into your head what a knight is."

"I do know what a knight is."

"You haven't any idea."

"I'll hear it. "

"Ser Boros Blount is a knight," she said, softly, "and Ser Barristan Selmy is a knight. They're both knights. Aren't they."

He opened his mouth and closed it, gritting his jaw.

"All right. You've a point. But you're still wrong. Knighthood makes the man, not the other way round. Because of what it asks of them. Even I'd need another lifetime to kill as many men as old Selmy has."

She shook her head. "I pray if you receive it you'll use it for something else."

"Why? What else? What could you need my life for, if not this?" He laughed to himself. "The flowers and the ribbons and the favor, they're only covering what you're really asking for, which is their lives for yours."

"I never asked. Favors are blessings," the girl said, voice tight.

He grinned. "I don't doubt it. I'll never know. But- what is it you really favor? The tourney? Your pretty knight? His honor? Your honor? You've never thought it through, have you? No, it's the sword that you tie your ribbon to. Just this." He patted his shoulder. "And what comes with it."

"Bravery. It's bravery," she said, under her breath.

"Bravery's just a word for dying without too much noise about it. Listen. At your age I lived at the Rock, though I might just as well have lived in their armory. There's an inscription over the Armory doors. Letters half tall as a man and tilted down, and carved a hand deep with real gold pressed inside, so it shines when you walk through. Lovely thing. I passed under it a dozen times a day when I was a squire. 'Once Lifted I shall not be Dropt', it says. That's fine, isn't it? Noble." The saddle creaked as he leaned forward, voice lowered to a growl. "Noble words from noblemen. Took me years of seeing it till one day I understood the jest." He snorted to himself. "Would you like to hear what it truly means?" She felt his breath at her ear and turned away from it and he followed her, gently.

"Means the sword don't drop til I do. That's the jest. So, you may as well tie your ribbon right to me. You'll get the same out of it." He breathed warm into her hair, grinning, wolfish. The horse jostled them. The woods were still, quiet, windless now and heavy around them.

She lifted her chin, angled up to him. He watched the soft arc of lashes lift up, the glistening ring of color in the eye pressing up into his.

"But what is my ribbon worth, now?"

He laughed gently into her hair, and shook his head, and thought and did not say, Name your price.

"You don't need to answer anyhow. Joff stole it," she said, softly. "He took it and ripped it up. He ripped up my family and my favor and now I've nothing."

"You're worth a kingdom."

"Is that what you think you're getting?" Her tone, superior and bitter at once, stilled his rush of anger. He couldn't tell which of the two of them she was mocking.

"No. We both know what I'm getting: an arrow in the back soon as I've handed you over. Good thing I'm prepared for it."

Her voice low and icy. "Robb is from the North. He's honorable."

"All right," the Hound said dispassionately, "arrow in the front, then."

She said nothing.