What the fuck just happened? She goes from jabbing me to washing my face in riverwater like a damned maidservant. She was right – there, squashing flowers into my hand, touching my bad side, calm as a battle-nurse. And I was – letting her. And then she tells me I look less monstrous and she might have well have kneed me in the balls. Tried to make up for it but I know what she meant. She'll always see me as a monster, nothing more, just as long as I have this face.
I've had dreams where I'm clawing it off, peeling back layer after layer only to find more of it underneath, never-ending, raw, thick as staghide. Father paid someone to make me a mask and then said I looked more of a fool, that I'd have to wear it with honour. Honour – as if I'd won it in a battle and not at Gregor's hands. I've used it as a weapon, and it works too, but that means I get men, women, children all reeling back just when I've come to get oats or a new belt or my sheets washed. What I am going to do, melt on them?
She hates it out here. I don't care. I tell her we need to stay off the Kingsroad, shadow it to the east. It's the truth, mostly. I just want to have her to myself, just for a bit. Just to look. I can look at her even if I don't want her to look at me ever again. Hells, her knee was touching my thigh back there at the river.
She's hardly said a word all day. Just keeps eyeing me sideways as if I'm going to bite her. She's the one that bites. Blades and words.
I have to make a fire. Haven't done this for a long time. It's like trying to feed a wild animal. And I have to get close to it. I picture my whole head on fire.
I wake up suddenly in the night, thinking the fire's become a lake, surrounding me. My throat's like the Red Waste. I take some wine, quick. The skin's getting lighter, too light. There's a noise and she's wriggling, feet going like mad against the leaves. So she has nightmares too. Suppose she's had enough trouble to earn them. I walk over to her, soft as a cat, I hope. The fire's about dead and all I can see is a bundle. She's whimpering. My head's swimming a bit and I feel like lying down next to her and pulling her to me and shushing her but she'll wake up and think she's fallen from one nightmare into another, probably. Fuck, this shoulder.
I will keep her safe though, in my own way. I said I would. And that means feeding her too. And having something to soak up the wine in me. I'm out – should have rationed it. I'm a fool. I need it as much as she needs a blanket round her shoulders. So I sit and wait at the bottom of the field where I saw hares last night. It's early enough for there to be a mist dawdling over the grass, like the ghosts of fresh soldiers.
My bow arm's fucked now, but we need to eat. Not done much archery training – my place has always been with the scrappers in the swordsyard, trying to find someone who can match me. The Kingslayer is one – wonder what state his sword hand is in right now. Those fucking Lannisters: what a family. A tyrant with my brother at his bidding, a cross-eyed dwarf, a brother and sister who definitely know each other too well and a boy who's the spawn of them both. As soon as I heard it spoken of I knew it to be true. There's not a breath of the drunk king on him. The little ones are probably theirs too, hair like cornfields, not that they're twisted in the head like him. Not yet. There's still time. Though maybe it's different when you're raised to be a king. - There's one. Wait 'til it's closer. I'm not going to be chasing arrows all morning. That's what squires are for. Maybe I should get the bird to squire for me instead of leaving her all wrapped up, face scrunched like she's thinking too hard. Now – let's see what my left arm's aim is like.
Everything is a bit calmer on the ride this morning. I'm doing my damndest not to snap at her, even though my hand's still stinging to fuck. Even though she called me a monster. I keep looking round to check she's not fallen off. She looks tired. That hair's beginning to look like tangleweed. I like it.
She's stopped, way back down the path. Been so damned quiet I didn't notice straight off. What's she doing back there? Maybe she's taking a piss. I'll take my time.
She looks like she's snared in a bramble bush. And then she totters towards me, holding her skirts up. I can see her ankles. And she's got a mouth on her like a wolf on a deer. And she chucks all the blackberries in the sack I give her and I swear, it's the first smile I've seen on her since – I don't know. Before her father, maybe. And I touch the corner of her mouth where the stain's worst before I think about why I shouldn't and she doesn't turn and run.