The region the westerners were crossing was called the Neck for two reasons. First, it was the narrowest part of the Westerosi continent. Second, the warm, humid sea winds from both the east and west converged here, blocked by the cold air from the north. The result was a constant drizzle throughout the year, with only a handful of days when the sun was visible.
The abundant moisture nourished towering trees with dense canopies that completely blocked out the sky, leaving the land below in perpetual gloom. The only places where sunlight could be seen were the scattered pools of water, surrounded by overgrown shrubs and filled with murky silt.
The cold drizzle and muddy paths made every step exhausting. The soldiers' boots sank into the muck up to their ankles, sapping their strength with each movement. With Cersei and her handmaidens slowing them down, the group's expected arrival before nightfall was delayed until well past midnight.
The inn they reached was a two-story wooden building, the only shelter for miles. Beside it stood a small stable, and local fishermen and hunters often gathered here to trade their catches and game for necessities such as iron tools and salt. Many hunters had even built makeshift huts near the inn for temporary lodging. The inn had no name—its illiterate owner and his family simply referred to it by its location: the Foothill Inn.
By the time they arrived, Cersei was feverish and weak. With Addam's arrangements, she was taken to a room on the second floor, supported by her maids. Knights were given space on the dry upper floor, while common soldiers had to settle for sleeping on the ground floor among the tables and chairs.
With nearly two hundred people crowding into the inn, the place was completely packed. Many fishermen and hunters who had been resting in the common hall were unceremoniously thrown out. Where they would sleep for the night was of no concern to the noblemen.
"No more rooms? So I'm supposed to sleep on the floor?" Donnel pressed his face close to the short innkeeper, his voice brimming with arrogance. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, its missing gemstone leaving an empty socket. He jabbed a finger toward the already occupied common hall.
The innkeeper trembled. With so many armed men here, he didn't dare complain—not even if they refused to pay.
"M-My lord, there are only four rooms upstairs. My wife, daughter, and I sleep in one. Another has already been given to your people, and one more is already occupied." His voice wavered as he answered.
"You said four rooms—where's the last one?"
As Donnel questioned the innkeeper from the staircase, Addam, who was checking supplies in the hall below, glanced up briefly before ignoring the matter and continuing his work.
The innkeeper hurriedly led Donnel to a door, opening it to reveal a storage room packed with supplies. "This last room is full of provisions, my lord. The damp weather here spoils food quickly if it's not stored upstairs."
"Then go throw out the guests in the other room!"
When the innkeeper hesitated, Donnel drew his sword and pressed the blade to the man's throat. "Either you kick them out, or I cut off your head!"
"P-Please, my lord, I'll do it!" The innkeeper, abandoning any pretense of hospitality, scurried to the occupied room. He knocked forcefully, his hands trembling.
"What's going on?" came a deep voice from within—likely a man in his thirties.
Hearing this, the Hound, who had been sitting against the wall, instinctively tightened his gloves.
The door creaked open, revealing a bearded man dressed in coarse gray wool. He barely had time to react before Donnel strode up. "This room is mine now. Get out."
"Who are you people?"
Inside, several other men, likely hunters, stirred awake. Even in a rundown inn, they couldn't afford private rooms—pooling their coin to share one was a luxury in itself.
"Hound, get rid of them."
Leaning against the wall, Sandor Clegane had no interest in Donnel's antics. He was exhausted from both the journey and the effort of dragging Donnel along. Instead of responding, he merely turned his head and closed his eyes.
"Arghhh—!"
The deserter commander of the City Watch, Oswell Kettleblack, and his son, Osmund, rushed forward.
Having lost his other sons outside King's Landing, Oswell's hair had turned completely white in the weeks of their escape. Aboard the ship, he had learned of Donnel's identity—heir to both the Westerlands and House Sarsfield. Seeking to curry favor, he now eagerly followed Donnel's orders.
Osmund, a large and powerful man, grabbed a hunter by the neck and threw him down the stairs.
Laughter erupted from the soldiers below.
"No—!"
Osmund yanked two more men from the room, kicking each down the staircase. The soldiers roared with even greater amusement.
"You—!" One of the hunters, bleeding from his chin, climbed to his feet, about to curse, but a companion pulled him back.
Another hunter clamped a hand over his mouth, whispering urgently, "Don't! They have too many men!"
"Well, how about you four join me for the night?"
"HAHAHA!"
With sheer numbers on their side, the soldiers jeered, taunting both men and women alike. Bored and restless, their laughter filled the common hall with crude remarks.
"Let's go! We're leaving!"
Dressed only in their underclothes, the four hunters fled into the night. Their bows, coats, and tools remained in the room, but they dared not return for them.
Later that night, a few soldiers crept into the innkeeper's quarters, returning half an hour later.
From then on, the only sounds in the inn were the snores of the exhausted men.
At first light, Sandor Clegane, who had slept in the upstairs hallway, was awakened by the innkeeper and his family passing by, their arms full of food supplies.
The Hound remained seated, raising his head to see the short and frail innkeeper with bruises on his face. His wife and daughter, standing behind him, bore similar marks. He immediately understood what had happened the previous night.
This was a remote and shabby inn, and the innkeeper's wife was no beauty, while the little girl seemed no older than ten. Yet those bastards still went through with it.
The men from the Westerlands were part of the Lord's standing army, considered the most disciplined professional soldiers. But now, having concealed their identities and spent a long time away from home, the darker side of their nature had begun to resurface.
After a night's rest, Cersei was feeling slightly better. There were no medicines here, no maesters, no hope of recovery—staying in this place would only mean waiting for death. Addam had the innkeeper fetch a handcart, placed Cersei on it, and had the soldiers push it along.
The rain had stopped today. The Westerlands men, having packed their gear, assembled at the inn's entrance, while the quartermaster and a few soldiers settled the bill with the innkeeper.
"My lord, that'll be five silver stags in total."
"How much?" The quartermaster's tone was harsh.
"My lord, two silver stags," the innkeeper immediately relented.
"Pay him! One silver stag!" The quartermaster knew Addam had already agreed on a price that morning, but he still had to haggle—three stags for himself, one for his brothers to buy drinks.
"Hah! Here's your payment for the night!" One of the soldiers pulled out a coin pouch, pinched a silver coin between two fingers, and dangled it mockingly in front of the innkeeper's wife.
She stood behind the counter, clutching her daughter tightly in her arms, head bowed, not daring to look at the soldier, enduring their laughter in silence.
Crack!
A thick, muscular arm suddenly clamped down on the soldier's wrist.
"The Hound! What the fuck are you doing to my brother?" the quartermaster shouted.
"No wonder you're a quartermaster while he holds the purse. Turns out it's a family business." The Hound's grip tightened.
The soldier, clutching the money pouch, felt as if his arm had been caught in an iron vise. No matter how hard he struggled, he could only watch helplessly as the Hound twisted his arm toward the counter.
"Aaagh!" The soldier cried out in pain as the Hound wrenched his arm, forcing him to drop the pouch onto the counter.
The Hound took a step forward, using his bulk to shield the money pouch. "So, are you bastards going to march back to formation now, or should I cut you down and bring your heads back?"
"We're leaving!" The quartermaster glared at the Hound, but he knew better than to push his luck.
Not only was the Hound far stronger than them, but he also outranked them. He was a landed knight—a man with property. They, on the other hand, were knights in title only, owning nothing beyond their armor and swords.
The quartermaster led his men out of the inn, with the Hound following closely behind.
"My lord!"
The Hound stopped at the doorway and turned his scarred, fearsome face back toward the innkeeper. "That's yours."
Before leaving, he had checked the storeroom where the food was kept. Compared to last night, more than half the supplies were gone—looted by a force nearly two hundred strong. By any reasonable count, five silver stags wouldn't cover the cost, let alone compensate the innkeeper's wife and daughter.
"My lord!"
The innkeeper picked up the pouch again, but when he looked up, the Hound and the soldiers were already far away.
---
Not far from the inn, on a rocky hillside, four hunters huddled together, arms wrapped around their knees, shivering as they watched the Westerlands men depart.
"Who the hell are they? Why would so many of them come to this gods-forsaken place?" The youngest of the hunters, barely in his teens, asked.
"A few of them look like nobles. The rest are well-drilled soldiers. They're heading west—probably planning to cross the Neck and sail from the western shore." The eldest of the hunters, skilled in reading animal behavior, could just as easily read men. From their actions, he could tell who were the leaders, and from their mannerisms, he could pick out the nobles accustomed to a life of refinement.
"Let's go. We should head back to the inn and get our things. We don't want any trouble with nobles."
The innkeeper's family was busy cleaning up the kitchen when the four hunters returned to their room upstairs.
"What the—my bow!"
"This is outrageous!"
In the corner of the room, a crude stone slab had been placed down, covered in ashes. Their belongings—clothes, bows, and other gear—had been burned overnight for warmth, used as fuel by the Westerlands men. Their two iron daggers had also been taken.
"My dagger! My bow! Aaagh!" The youngest hunter burst into tears. Those had been his only possessions.
In a place this remote and impoverished, a good bow and an iron dagger were a hunter's lifeline. They had spent countless days skinning prime pelts just to afford them. Without their tools, they wouldn't be able to hunt, and their families would go hungry.
The oldest hunter, seeing the pain of his friends, felt he had to do something.
"I still have some food at home. Let's take our families and head north to seek refuge with Lord Reed! But before we go, we need to cause some trouble for those bastards!"
The four of them were true Neck-born men—not nobles, not soldiers of any house, but illiterate hunters who had survived using the ancient hunting skills passed down through generations in the swampy lands of the Neck.
To live here for decades, even generations, one didn't need to know nobles, but one did need to build relationships with another group—otherwise, they'd be robbed and killed at any moment. That group was the mountain clans of the Mountains of the Moons, the same people whom the lords called the Vale wildlings.
Stuffing dry grass into their clothes for warmth, the hunters followed the lead of the eldest among them and made their way toward the white-stone-covered Mountains of the Moons.
The wildlings valued primal strength. If one followed their rules, they were easy to deal with. Beat one of them in a fair fight—no tricks, no ganging up—and they would recognize your strength. However, there was one crucial condition that many outsiders failed to meet: you had to be poorer than the wildlings themselves! Only then would they not bother robbing you, giving you a chance to challenge them in combat.
After climbing a few small hills, they reached a wildling scouting camp, raising their hands to show they were unarmed. A few fur-clad men emerged, gesturing as they communicated.
Once the wildlings learned that a group of well-equipped outsiders had entered their "territory", they grew eager. Nearly two hundred men was no small number to fight, so they had to return to their tribe to call for reinforcements. To prove the information was real, they took the four hunters back with them—and forced them to join the raid. There was another reason for this: if the hunters had lied and led them on a fruitless march, the wildlings would skewer them from bottom to top and roast them alive.
The westerners had a few days' lead, but the wildlings soon gathered a raiding party of four to five hundred men and set off in pursuit.
The damp swamps of the Neck, once exposed to sunlight, would quickly evaporate into thick mist. Such misty days were also an unspoken time for the scattered folk of the Neck to trade goods.
"There's a trading post ahead! Let's see if they have any food!" Addam's voice carried through the fog, reaching everyone in the column.
"A trading post?" As Donnel and the Hound stepped through the mist, they realized it was unlike any trading post they had imagined.
A flat, stone surface, roughly the size of an arena, was crowded with people. They had laid out their hunted game and pelts, ready to trade—no need for coins, anything of value could be exchanged.
"What the hell is that smell?" Donnel cursed, covering his mouth.
The Hound sniffed the air but seemed unbothered. He was called the Hound, his sigil was a hound, but his nose was no keener than any man's.
"It's these filthy wretches! Hound, take a guess—how long do you think it's been since they last bathed? A month? A year? Hahaha!" Donnel pointed at a group of ragged figures crouched on the stone, laughing loudly.
"Get back here, Donnel!"
The Hound, recognizing the way the men were dressed, yanked Donnel back to his side.