She's coming towards me, a damned wraith - bare feet, all pale-calved, that white underdress hanging to her knees - like she's come to ghost right through me, howling in my ears. I'm standing there with my jaw severed and remember why I'm there and shush her, shove my hands in the river. I show her – badly, as it happens – how to hang, still as a reed, how to catch it. I lose the fucking thing and it's her go, and then I'm allowed to look. Knee-deep in river, in her bloody underthings. I can see the skin of her, below her neck, a little pulse going. Fuck.

And we have a fight with a fish, damned thing's as slippery as the eunuch, and I end up having to smash its head in on the bank. I turn round and Sansa's laughing so bloody hard, it's falling out of her like she is the damned river and hells, she's so fucking beautiful. She makes me want to gather all the fish from the river and chuck them at her just to make her squeal like that some more, and I want to be the fish slipping through her fingers. She's on the bank now, still laughing like a dungeon lunatic. It's like King's Landing has had been gripping her by the back, and been loosing, claw by claw, and it's almost gone.

She's pretty soft on the rain, though. Starts coming down and it's like she's never been rained on before. She goes very quiet and a bit sour-faced. Well, none of us like the bloody rain, but you don't have to look so damned soupy about it. Still, it's only getting worse so I go looking for proper shelter. Beginning to feel a bit guilty about not putting a roof over her head.

By some bloody miracle, there's a big yawn of a tree, an old hollowed-out trunk wide enough for both of us. I get her in and me after. Nearest I've been to her, for sleeping. She looks pretty damned grouchy over it though and I think, what, have I not done enough for you, girl? She won't eat - her, with a stomach like a bloody endless cave. I hope to the Gods that I don't smell as bad as I think I do, rain steaming off me. Maybe that's why she's scrunched up as far away from me as she can get. Gods, the rain. Horses won't be happy. She goes to sleep, head tucked away so I can hardly see her. She keeps shivering, juddery little breaths, so I put my cloak over her knees. Hells, I wish I had wine.

She wakes me up early, jerking around like a rabbit in a wire. She's flung her cloak off, and mine, so I steal it back. Her eyes are shut and she's bashing her head a bit on the trunk, and saying something, over and over like a healer's spell, something like send the head back, send the head back. Her voice isn't her own, she sounds like a child, that or a crone, as old as this tree. And then she's awake, and her face looks like clay.

We get going and she's put away all of our water, and looking like she'll drop off her damned mare any moment. Great. I've an ailing waif on my hands. I leave her to go and get water. I can only do what I do best: food, water, moving. I'll get her to an inn at least. We must be near Fernback or one of those other poxy little villages. I hate the thought of us being recognised – there's only so many men I can kill. If it's a search party, we're fucked.

Skins filled down at the stream, I walk Stranger back up the slope. Even he's a grumpy bastard this morning, wants a bloody stable and not being rained on, probably. I'm shoving his arse up the last few strides when I hear voices, men's voices, and Sansa's in there with them, and it's like someone's put a cold blade to the front of my throat, and I move fast. And do what I do best.