Chapter 290 275 Arya

Warm, metallic-tasting blood splattered onto Arya's face, sticky and scalding.

For a moment, she was dazed, unable to tell whether the blood belonged to the towering figure before her, or to those who had besieged them—men who once wore the armor of The North, but had now devolved into stragglers and bandits.

The flight north from The Crownlands had been far more difficult than she had imagined.

She traveled toward The North based on memory and instinct, only to encounter one of the people she had once loathed most along the way.

The Hound, Sandor Clegane.

He had left The Crownlands for reasons unknown, following her like an inescapable shadow.

She had driven him away, cursed at him, and pointed Needle at him.

But the man would only watch her with those gloomy eyes, then continue to follow at a distance.

Gradually, Arya gave up.

In these chaotic times in The Riverlands, a "companion" who looked ferocious and possessed great martial prowess—even if he had once been an enemy—could scare away some ill-intentioned gazes.

And so, with a strange and silent tacit understanding, they traveled one behind the other, crossing the increasingly chaotic land.

Finally, they drew near to The Green Fork.

The iconic 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 glimmer of hope rose in Arya's heart.

But hope was quickly replaced by fear.

They had been attacked by more than one wave of stragglers.

From the scattered curses and conversations of those ragged, fierce-eyed Soldiers, Arya pieced together information that made her heart nearly stop beating:

Her brother Robb, King in the North, had been defeated in the decisive battle against House Targaryen in The Riverlands...

The army had scattered, and the King was missing.

Soldiers, having lost their organization and supplies, had turned into bandits even more brutal than the Lannister Soldiers in order to survive.

Arya did not know whether she should reveal her identity.

The name Stark was an honor in The North, but before this group of stragglers, tortured into insanity by defeat, fear, and hunger, would it deter them?

Or would it make them even more crazed with the desire to capture a noble hostage?

She did not know.

Just at the moment she lost focus, a filth-covered straggler with beastly glints in his eyes, seizing the gap while Sandor Clegane was entangled with others, lunged at her with a grin.

"Little beauty, you've been hiding yourself well..."

Arya snapped back to reality and gripped Needle tightly.

The Water Dance taught by Syrio Forel flashed through her mind, but facing the hulking man charging with a shield and longsword, her nimble footwork and thrusts seemed suddenly pale and ineffective.

She gritted her teeth and thrust, but the opponent easily parried with his shield. A tremendous force surged through, and with a cry, she was knocked to the ground, Needle flying from her hand.

"Get lost!"

Almost simultaneously, a roar rang out.

Sandor, like an enraged bear, shoved aside the two stragglers tangling with him and charged over.

His greatsword had no fancy moves, only raw power.

With the first strike, the straggler was sent stumbling back.

With the second strike, the shield cracked.

With the third strike, the shield shattered completely, and the blade hacked viciously into the man's shoulder and neck.

Blood sprayed out, splattering both Sandor and Arya, who was on the ground.

Sandor did not even look at the fallen corpse; he turned back and growled at Arya, who was slumped on the ground:

"The battlefield is no place for you to daydream, you Stark pup! Put away that damn needle of yours! That thing can't kill anyone!"

Before he had even finished speaking, the remaining dozen or so stragglers had circled back around.

There was no fear in their eyes, only the crazed ferocity ignited by their companion's blood.

These Northern brutes were indeed fierce; even as stragglers, if they had been the soft-bellies from The Riverlands or The Crownlands, he would only have needed to kill a few, and the rest would have tucked their tails and run long ago.

Sandor cursed under his breath and swung his sword to meet them again.

In normal times, he would not have thought much of these dozen or so rabble.

But after days of fleeing and starving, his strength was no longer at its peak.

These stragglers had clearly fought in several battles before; they knew how to cooperate, using shields to defend and alternating attacks, managing to force him into a tight spot, adding several more wounds to his body.

Arya gritted her teeth, scrambled up, and retrieved Needle.

She saw that Sandor's back was wide open, and a straggler was thrusting a spear at him.

Without thinking, she screamed and charged, using all her strength to thrust the tip of Needle into the straggler's lower back.

The tip seemed to strike something, but the straggler only let out a muffled grunt and backhanded her with his shield, knocking her to the ground again.

They did not seem in a hurry to kill this "little girl," merely using their shields and weapons to force her back, separating her from Sandor, gradually forming a loose encirclement.

Clearly, they had the same idea as the previous straggler.

Sandor roared repeatedly, cutting down another man, but nearly got skewered by a spear thrust from the side himself.

Arya was knocked down again by a shield, dizzy and dazed, as a filthy hand reached out to grab her ankle—

"Whoosh—!"

A sharp, piercing sound tore through the air.

The body of the straggler reaching for Arya's ankle stiffened abruptly, and a spray of blood burst from his throat.

An arrow had accurately pierced his neck.

He widened his eyes, released his grip, and fell backward.

Everyone on the field froze.

Immediately following, the sound of dense hoofbeats, like rolling thunder, came from outside the sparse woods nearby.

Dust rose, and over a hundred riders charged out of the woods, rushing straight toward the battlefield!

Most of these cavalrymen were in disarray, their armor stained with blood, as if they had just experienced a great battle, but everyone wore the look of wind and frost, with sharp eyes and weapons gleaming with cold light.

More importantly, among them, a tattered yet stubbornly flying banner... a grey Direwolf roaring on a white background.

Arya's heart sank for a moment... another group of stragglers?

But seeing that Direwolf banner, an indescribable bitterness and a faint spark of hope suddenly rushed to her nose.

The dozen or so stragglers besieging them could not organize any effective resistance against this sudden cavalry charge.

Within a few breaths, most were cut down, and the remaining few were quickly subdued.

From the cavalry troop, the leader dismounted.

His fur cloak was damaged, his face covered in stubble, and his eye sockets deeply sunken; he looked much older than his actual age.

But his figure remained upright, and those ice-blue eyes, even bloodshot, were still as sharp as blades.

He walked over with long strides, his gaze landing on this strange pair—one tall and burly, the other small and slender.

After the Northern army scattered, the loss of military discipline and the severance of supplies caused these stragglers to degenerate into bandits and thieves, plundering villages and civilians throughout The Riverlands.

Although Robb had experienced the crushing defeat at The Trident and the scattering of his army, falling into despair, the honor that remained in his heart did not allow him to sit idly by while his former Soldiers plundered civilians.

He had heard that the banner of the North had been raised at The Twins, and that the Northern army led by Roose Bolton had actually survived; this was the only good news he had heard in some time.

On the way to The Twins, he had already resolved several such incidents.

But this time, the appearance of the two people before him clearly did not fit the category of civilians, especially the tall and burly one.

Robb frowned slightly, his gaze landing on the thin, small figure who appeared to be a girl.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice hoarse, yet carrying a familiarity that was etched into Arya's very bones.