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The brother from the Quiet Isle is in the Vale not five days before guardsmen come for him.  Perhaps it’s because he’s not near quiet enough, asking questions wherever he goes – questions about other travelers, particularly involving a girl of a certain age and aspect, who might have passed this way some months ago.  Perhaps he’s less than subtle in his inquiries; perhaps he’s careless, giving someone a glimpse of a feature they recognize, despite the fact that he’s always hooded and veiled below the eyes.

Or perhaps it’s just that no amount of cloth can disguise his frame, taller than most men’s notion of tall – even with the limp in one leg dragging down his height – and muscled, where the robes don’t hang loose enough to hide it, like a bull made fit to swing a sword.

He doesn’t resist when they come, so it’s a bloodless affair.  They don’t rough him up or even touch him much at all, save to check him for weapons, of which he currently carries none.  Still, there was a time when he’d sooner pulp jawbones than submit to any kind of forcible escort; and maybe something of the inclination yet shows around his eyes, because they take him directly to the Gates of the Moon.

The guard’s captain locks him in a temporary holding cell, inside the castle’s great gatehouse itself.  “For your safety,” the man says, straight-faced.  “Lord Arryn is devoted to the Seven, and would protect those of the Faith who wander our roads in these troubled times.”

Lord Arryn is devoted to tit-milk and tantrums, the brother thinks.  And I piss on his protection.  But for once he keeps the silence of his order.

The captain leaves him alone, and when he’s gone Sandor swears aloud, the sound rasping even within the layers of his veil.

“Seven bloody hells.”

He takes a few steps around the space, not at all like a proper dog might circle its bed; he’s every inch the feral thing pacing its prison.

Then he heaves a sigh, and sits down on the cell’s lone bench, awaiting whatever, whoever comes next.