Tyrion was dimly aware of a maester asking if he was injured. He pushed his way across the yard to where his nephew stood, his dungencrusted crown askew. “Traitors,” Joffrey was babbling excitedly, “I’ll have all their heads, I’ll—”
The dwarf slapped his flushed face so hard the crown flew from Joffrey’s head. Then he shoved him with both hands and knocked him sprawling. “You blind bloody fool.”
“They were traitors,” Joffrey squealed from the ground. “They called me names and attacked me!”
“You set your dog on them! What did you imagine they would do, bend the knee meekly while the Hound lopped off some limbs? You spoiled witless little boy, you’ve killed Clegane and gods know how many more, and yet you come through unscratched. Damn you!” And he kicked him. It felt so good he might have done more, but Ser Mandon Moore pulled him off as Joffrey howled, and then Bronn was there to take him in hand. Cersei knelt over her son, while Ser Balon Swann restrained Ser Lancel. Tyrion wrenched free of Bronn’s grip. “How many are still out there?” he shouted to no one and everyone.
“My daughter,” cried Lady Tanda. “Please, someone must go back for Lollys . . .”
“Ser Preston is not returned,” Ser Boros Blount reported, “nor Aron Santagar.”
“Nor Wet Nurse,” said Ser Horas Redwyne. That was the mocking name the other squires had hung on young Tyrek Lannister. Tyrion glanced round the yard. “Where’s the Stark girl?”
For a moment no one answered. Finally Joffrey said, “She was riding by me. I don’t know where she went.”
Tyrion pressed blunt fingers into his throbbing temples. If Sansa Stark had come to harm, Jaime was as good as dead. “Ser Mandon, you were her shield.”
Ser Mandon Moore remained untroubled. “When they mobbed the Hound, I thought first of the king.”
“And rightly so,” Cersei put in. “Boros, Meryn, go back and find the girl.”
“And my daughter,” Lady Tanda sobbed. “Please, sers . . .”
Ser Boros did not look pleased at the prospect of leaving the safety of the castle. “Your Grace,” he told the queen, “the sight of our white cloaks might enrage the mob.”
Tyrion had stomached all he cared to. “The Others take your fucking cloaks! Take them off if you’re afraid to wear them, you bloody oaf . . . but find me Sansa Stark or I swear, I’ll have Shagga split that ugly head of yours in two to see if there’s anything inside but black pudding.”
Ser Boros went purple with rage. “You would call me ugly, you?” He started to raise the bloody sword still clutched in his mailed fist. Bronn shoved Tyrion unceremoniously behind him.
“Stop it!” Cersei snapped. “Boros, you’ll do as you’re bid, or we’ll find someone else to wear that cloak. Your oath—”
“There she is!” Joffrey shouted, pointing.
Sandor Clegane cantered briskly through the gates astride Sansa’s chestnut courser. The girl was seated behind, both arms tight around the Hound’s chest.
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