The journey continues.

By the time they reached Ivy Inn, a squat, moss-covered building nestled between two ancient weirwoods, Lyonel was ready to snap.

The town was little more than a cluster of huts and a tavern, but it was blessed relief from the saddle.

Robert, sweating and red-faced, declared they would camp in the fields again. "Not sleeping in some flea-ridden inn," he grumbled, swinging down from his destrier. "We press on. Another hour, then we make camp."

Cersei’s lip curled, but she said nothing. Myrcella, however, looked relieved, her smile bright as she stretched her legs. "A fire under the stars sounds lovely," she said, her gaze flicking to Lyonel.

He ignored her. Ignored all of them.

The camp was set quickly—tents pitched, fires lit, horses hobbled. The servants unpacked bread and salted meat, the smell making Lyonel’s stomach growl. He ate in silence, chewing mechanically, his thoughts still tangled in memories.

Then Sandor kicked his boot.

"Come on, bastard." The Hound jerked his chin toward the road behind them. "There’s a tavern back in Ivy. Real ale. Real food. And if we’re lucky, a real fight."

Lyonel arched a brow. "You just want someone to hold your wine."

Sandor grinned, a feral thing. "Exactly."

Lyonel pushed himself up, brushing dirt from his tunic. "Fine. But if you start the fight, you finish it."

Sandor barked a laugh. "Where’s the fun in that?"

The tavern was a mile back, its smoke-stained walls and crooked sign promising more than it could deliver. But right now, it was better than this.

And for the first time in days, Lyonel smiled.

The path to the tavern was a narrow, winding thing, the dusk-light bleeding through the gnarled branches of the weirwoods that lined the road.

The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, the cicadas humming a droning chorus that made the silence feel alive. Lyonel walked beside Sandor, their boots kicking up dust, the Hound’s limp more pronounced after a day in the saddle.

The tavern came into view as they rounded a bend—a squat, timber-framed building with a sagging thatch roof and a sign creaking in the wind, its painted boar faded to near-invisibility.

The sound of laughter and clinking tankards spilled through the open shutters, along with the yeasty scent of ale and the smoke of a roaring hearth. It wasn’t much, but it was better than the cold ground and the company of kings.

Sandor pushed the door open without ceremony, the hinges groaning in protest. The heat and noise hit Lyonel like a physical blow—men shouting, women laughing, the clatter of dice against wood.

The tavern’s patrons were a mix of merchants, sell-swords, and local farmers, their faces flushed from drink, their eyes bright with the promise of mischief. A few glances flicked their way, assessing, then dismissing—until they saw Sandor’s helm.

Then the murmurs started.

Lyonel ignored them. He followed Sandor to the bar, where the tavern keeper, a burly man with a beard like a bramble bush, eyed them with wary respect.

"Ale," Sandor grunted. "The strong kind."

The keeper nodded, filling two chipped tankards from a barrel in the corner. He slid them across the wooden counter, his gaze lingering on Sandor’s burned face. "You’re the Hound," he said, low.

Sandor didn’t look up. "And you’re slow."

The man chuckled, wiping his hands on his apron. "Aye, well. You’re not the first dog to walk in here."

Lyonel took a long pull of his ale. It was bitter, strong, the kind of drink that burned on the way down and warmed the belly.

He scanned the room, his gaze snagging on two men in the far corner, their cloaks bearing the black and red of Harrenhal. They were leaning in, their voices low, their expressions grim.

"—dead a week past," one was saying, his voice rough with drink and grief. "Lord Walter went in his sleep. No warning." He shook his head, his fingers tightening around his tankard. "Lady Shella’s left with nothing—her sons all dead, her daughter married off to that Frey bastard."

The other man spat into the rushes. "Harrenhal’s a prize now. Every lord from the Trident to the Neck is licking his lips."

The first man lowered his voice, but Lyonel’s ears were sharp. He drained his ale, his face dark. "Gods help Lady Shella. She’s no match for the likes of them."

Lyonel’s fingers tightened around his tankard. Harrenhal. The largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, a monstrosity of black stone and blood-soaked history. And now its lord was dead, its lady ****, its future a feast for vultures.

Sandor noticed his tension. "Eavesdropping?"

Lyonel shrugged, taking another swallow. "Just listening."

Sandor snorted. "Dangerous habit." He flagged down a serving wench, a comely girl with auburn curls and a smile that promised more than ale. "Another round," he told her, his voice rough. Then, to Lyonel: "You’re thinking too hard."

Lyonel grunted. "Someone has to."

Sandor leaned in, his burned face twisting into a grimace of a smile. "Not tonight." He nodded toward the wench, who was returning with two fresh tankards and a look that said she knew exactly what Sandor wanted.

"Drink. Forget. And if you’re lucky, find someone to warm your bed." He tossed a silver stag onto the bar. "I’ll be upstairs. Don’t wait up."

Lyonel watched as Sandor disappeared into the shadows with the wench, her laughter trailing behind them. He finished his ale, the warmth of it spreading through his chest.

The Hound was right—tonight wasn’t for thinking. It was for drinking, for forgetting the weight of the road, the burden of the crown’s shadow.

But as he stepped back into the night, the stars above cold and indifferent, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Harrenhal—and the woman who now held it—would be more than just a passing tale.

The return to camp was quiet, the fire reduced to embers, the only sounds the rustle of wind and the distant hoot of an owl. Lyonel spread his cloak on the ground, lying down with Lionmane within arm’s reach.

Sleep came slowly, his mind still turning over the words from the tavern.