Sandor's brawny hand, further enlarged by the steel gauntlets he always wore, slammed down on William's shoulder, making him jump and shattering his daydream. "Bolton. I saw what happened. Sansa has a soft spot for you, if you can believe it, and gods only know why she's kept you from being beheaded all these years. I feel much differently about you than she. If I hear you speak that way to her again, I'll try my hand at recreating your sigil. Do you understand?" he drawled, his hand never moving.

"Erm . . ." William said, silently trying to scrabble for his dagger. His mind desperately tried to come up with a way to stay alive, at all costs. None of the scenarios looked good. Perhaps if he could draw and turn fast enough. The Hound is getting old, after all. And the stupid brute is probably to desensitized by his ales to notice a bear charging at him, let alone-

"Don't try reaching for that toothpick of yours, it will do you far worse in the long term," came the growl behind him, as Sandor's own dagger prodded William's back. The sting carried an obvious message.

" . . . yes, Ser," William squeaked. "In front of you," he couldn't help muttering.

"What was that?" Sandor asked. The dagger pressed a little harder.

"Nothing, trick of the wind," William quickly sputtered.

" . . . Good. I'm glad we had this talk," Sandor said. The dagger and the hand disappeared, and the sound of armor clinking slowly receded until it was gone. William released the breath he was holding, and when he felt safe enough, slowly turned to find nothing. No Sandor, no knife. William grunted, and kicked a rock, adding Sandor Clegane to the mental list of people he wanted to kill, preferably in the manner of his ancestors. Wasn't there some sort of feast he was supposed to be at?

____________________________________________________________________________

Light chatter and clattering dinnerware filled the hall. William looked back down at his glass. It was disappointingly small, and devoid of wine. This needs to be rectified. "Oi!" he called, raising his cup. "More wine here!" A servant rushed up to him, but strangely didn't offer her obviously full tankard. "Well?" he demanded.

"I'm truly sorry, milord," the servant said. "I've received word that you have been restricted to one glass of wine for tonight." This, however, didn't stop her from slightly quivering as William stood up and treated her to one of his most withering gazes.

"What the fuck does that even mean!?" he shouted. The shivering of the girl was now so violent that some of the contents of the tankard were being shaken out, spilling where she stood. This only made William angrier. That was wine that he could be- no, should be drinking.

"Ulp. Some of the other lords . . . mentioned you by name, milord," she said, softly. William turned his gaze over to the far away Stark table. Torrhen leaned over to speak with one of his courtiers, and both looked in his direction before erupting into gales of laughter.

"Just get out of my sight," William growled, slumping back into his seat. "If we ever see each other again, you will be the lesser happy about it." The servant nodded, and ran off, more wine slopping onto the floor. Another platter of food was brought before him, and he was reminded again of how he came to sit this far from his original seating. The Tullys had been relatively patient with him. They had borne his words without too much fuss, but it was when he started throwing his lamprey around did one of their knights politely ask him to trade places with Lord Dayne, who preferred to sit with the knights. As he reached for his plate, something out of place caught his eye. A small note, with a carefully written message, strangely addressed specifically to him. William scanned the note, then the room. Midday? Reward? It was all vaguely worded, but he couldn't help imagining the potential of reward, and the thought slowly built itself up in his head. What could it be? The Dreadfort? The entirety of the North back under Bolton rule? The oh-so-righteous Starks finally put in their place?

So he rushed back to his room, and hastily gathered up his belongings. He strapped his sword to his belt, and slung the old breastplate he brought over his shoulder. Taking one last look at the room, he decided to leave something for the Targaryens or whoever they hired. So he whipped out his cock and relieved himself on the bed, paying extra attention to the pillow. That'll give someone a bad day. And with that, William took his things and headed for the port.

He slept little the night, and the following morning. Excitedly, he waited for news of further comings about the note, which he clutched in his palm. Throughout the night, loud noises could be heard emanating from the Red Keep. William shrugged it off, attributing it to the party. Dawn broke, and still nothing. Sleep called to him again, and this time he couldn't resist. He lay his head down on a dock support, and was out.

When he woke up, the sun was bright in the air. Looking around, he could see nothing regarding any note, conspiracy, or mission to the Stepstones. Damn it, this must be another of Torrhen's pranks. He's probably sitting in his room laughing it ups with his friends and shoving more horrifyingly large objects in his asshole. William was about to just give up and leave when he saw the others approach.