They have to kill him. I prayed for him to die, hundreds and hundreds of times.  Beric Dondarrion turned back to the Hound. “You stand accused of murder, but no one here knows the truth or falsehood of the charge, so it is not for us to judge you. Only the Lord of Light may do that now. I sentence you to trial by battle.”  The Hound frowned suspiciously, as if he did not trust his ears. “Are you a fool or a madman?”  “Neither. I am a just lord. Prove your innocence with a blade, and you shall be free to go.”  “No,” Arya cried, before Harwin covered her mouth. No, they can’t, he’ll go free. The Hound was deadly with a sword, everyone knew that. He’ll laugh at them, she thought.  And so he did, a long rasping laugh that echoed off the cave walls, a laugh choking with contempt. “So who will it be?” He looked at Lem Lemoncloak. “The brave man in the piss-yellow cloak? No? How about you, Huntsman? You’ve kicked dogs before a police shieldcould hold me upside down and drainmy gutschange your mind , try me.” He saw Greenbeard. “You’re big enough, Tyrosh, step forward. Or do you mean to make the little girl fight me herself?” He laughed again. “Come on, who wants to die?  “It’s me you’ll face,” said Lord Beric Dondarrion.  Arya remembered all the tales. He can’t be killed, she thought, hoping against hope. The Mad Huntsman that bound Sandor Clegane’s hands together. “I’ll need sword and armor.” The Hound rubbed a torn wrist.  “Your sword you shall have,” declared Lord Beric, “but your innocence must be your armor.” Clegane’s mouth twitched. “My innocence against your breastplate, is that the way of it?”  “Ned, help me remove my breastplate.”  Arya got goosebumps when Lord Beric said her father’s name, but this Ned was only a boy, a fair-haired squire no more than ten or twelve. He stepped up quickly to undo the clasps that fastened the battered steel about the Marcher lord. The quilting beneath was rotten with age and sweat, and fell away when the metal was pulled loose. Gendry sucked in his breath. “Mother have mercy.”