down hard on his tail

Polliver drew his longsword, and the Tickler’s hand whipped around in a blur to send something silver flashing across the common room. If the Hound had not been

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; instead it only grazed his ribs, and wound up quivering in the wall near the door. He laughed then, a

laugh as cold and hollow as if it had come from the bottom of a deep well. “I was hoping you’d do something stupid.” His sword slid from its scabbard just in time

to knock aside Polliver’s first cut.  Arya took a step backward as the long steel song began. The Tickler came off the bench with a shortsword in one hand and a

dagger in the other. Even the chunky brown-haired squire was up, fumbling for his swordhilt. She snatched her wine cup off the table and threw it at his face. Her

aim was better than it had been at the Twins. The cup hit him right on his big white pimple and he went .  Polliver was a grim, methodical

fighter, and he pressed Sandor steadily backward, his heavy longsword moving with brutal precision. The Hound’s own cuts were sloppier, his parries rushed, his feet

slow and clumsy. She drew the dagger they’d robbed off the dying archer and tried to fling it at the Tickler the way he’d done.