I take her to my chamber, for the cloaks. Bit risky. Catch her gawping. My room probably looks like a cell to her. Not too many mirrors and books and dried fucking flowers in here. Well, good – she needs to see that we don't all live like her, wrapped in damned silk. I put my old cloak over her – bit better than the last time I had to cover her with one. Sick fucking bastards. My hands brush her ears as I put the hood up. As cute as a damned wolf-pup. Wolf-pup? Wine talking.
I shove her into the doorway at the hint of noise. My damn nerves are sparking. Could be anyone – could be the other Kingsguard cunts, sent by the boy to fetch me back, if he'd coughed his pride back up. Little craven. Probably getting the shit scraped from his britches. Hiding behind a fucking imp. And then she's telling me I'm hurting her. The thought of bruising her bony elbow gives me a pain in my gut. Or maybe that's the wine, too.
She can't fucking ride, that's as plain as the day. I have to lead her through the peasants, who claw at us, good as dead. The sky is the colour of a man who can't take his drink.
Fire. If I'd known that the Imp was going to play that trick I'd have been gone days ago. Might as well have tipped me headfirst into the Seven Hells. Fire flooding up from the earth. The sea burning. Screaming. The hiss. There were dark men in the fire, all of them Gregor. All of them me. The sellsword laid the last one low though. I owe him, if I ever see him again.
It was a mess at the gate. Was always going to be, once they recognised the bird. And now my shoulder's a mess too, the first guard got me - deep enough to feel like an animal is hanging off me by the teeth. No time to stop and check it, though. No time to shut to Gate. Fuck it. Fuck them. Let them escape, if they can.
The wind's lashing. She's keeping up, just about. The further we get away, the less the wildfire is ringing in my head. Flashes every time I blink. Men on fire. Turning their arms about, tossing fire from their fingers. Fire yelling. Got to get further away.
It's getting light. There's been no one on the road. She's drooping in the saddle, not much more than a dress hanging on a line. I swing her by the ankle, lift her down – how can she have blood and bones in her, when she's so light? Her face pinches when it dawns on her that we're sleeping out here. Probably imagined me waiting on her hand and foot at inns as big as castles. That's not going to happen. Out here, we're going to be even. She's going to learn the way other people live – real people. My shoulder's killing me.
She curls up like a hedgehog. Ha – that's good, I could nose her, roll her about and get a mouthful of spikes, probably. I wait 'til she's asleep, and have a look at the shoulder. Fuck, it hurts. The skin's spongey, still bleeding. Wine on the shoulder, wine down the hatch. Shirt to bind it.
She's awake and wanting to help. Ay, come on then bird, I think, come over here and suck on it, that'll make me feel better. I shrug her off and this time I know she's asleep. Her breath's rattling, a little dry leaf caught on a fence wire. Now I know what she sounds like when she sleeps. Just think on that. Wine. Head's fucked too, now.
I wake up feeling like Stranger's lying on my skull, gnawing at my shoulder thinking I'm an apple. My gut's churning. Haven't slept off enough of that Dornish slop yet.
She's gone. Leaves flattened, a little bird-hedgehog-shaped wax seal in the mud. Fuck. She wouldn't, would she? What, I get her out of the gate and far enough away and she legs it? She's come to her senses and realised that nesting in the woods with a murderous half-faced dog isn't her idea of fun? No, wait – her horse is still here. The bags. I have a look: that stupid doll, jewels – what, couldn't live without a few bits of shiny metal? – dress, stockings, underdress. I finger that last one. Gods man, put it away. Find her.
