Two men. One's on her hand. She yells. Other's hand's on belt buckle, sword dropping to the ground. Backs to me. I'm too far. Loose an arrow, pray to the Gods. He falls, practically on her. The other runs, but he's blind. I get him, stomach. Third man's at the mare, slashing her at the belly, fumbling for his bow, all thumbs. I'm in him before he can pull back, and bring my sword up, up through him, until he bubbles and is down. Second man's still moving, not much, and I smash my boot on his face and slice his neck and he doesn't move then.
She's crumpled up, a pile, like she's boneless. I bring her up to me, sitting, hit her cheeks a bit, hard as I can without bloody scaring her, but she's not really there, eyes like fogged glass, limp as anything. Fuck fuck fuck. I check her: dress isn't torn, gently lift it up, just a little, please don't be scared Sansa, tip her towards me, have a look at her back, her shoulders. No marks on her. Her wrist's fucked, nothing else as far as I can see. But fucking hells, she's all over the place. I put a hand on her forehead and she's blazing like a furnace and I say come on Sansa, wake up, you're alright now, it's me, you're alright, and she looks at me and the fog clears just for a moment and she says don't leave me in a faraway voice like she's away past the Wall and then she's gone again.
I pick her up, carry her to Stranger and go to the mare. She's lying, knees buckled, heaving, a great ugly slash in her belly. The cunt. I put a hand between her ears, talk soft to her, tell her she did well and that she's alright, and throat her, quick as I can, end her properly. The blood becomes a lake around her head.
Stranger's quiet, he knows she's gone. Blows through his nose at me, no more, as I load up Sansa's bundles. She's like a haybale, sticking out awkwardly, and I haul her onto the horse, get myself up behind her quick as I can before she slumps off. Stranger jerks forward and I have to give him a kick to make him move, and get out of here as fast as possible.
She wakes and sleeps, and again, a little wave breaking. I've got her hoisted to me, arm round her waist, least romantic thing ever. Fuck, come on, Sansa. Maybe it's the shock. And she's got a fever, I'm sure of it. Maybe they did get her – I daredn't look that far. Fuck. We ride, and I'm killing them over and over, and harder, more guts spilled, blood, screaming, and I'd do it a thousand times. Her head's rolling like her neck's just twine, and I tip it back towards me before she hurts herself. There's a pain in my stomach like I'm the one who's been sliced.
I'm not fussing over being spotted now. We ride on the bigger tracks, and stop at the first place we come to, a smallholding, goats and chickens and a stable. A man comes out, sees me and swift as anything goes inside again. Out comes a woman, youngish, folding her arms at me, frowning. She takes in my face, and Sansa, and asks if she's well. I say what does it bloody look like and she says I'm not bloody helping you if you're going to be like that and I swallow my pride down and tell her I've coin and ask nicely. Her voice changes then and her face goes soft, and I lift Sansa off, and carry her in.
The woman bustles in ahead of me, takes me straight into a bedroom, theirs it looks like. Bedsheets all amiss. I lower Sansa down, gentle as I can, and she looks at me properly for a half-breath and my heart damned near breaks. The woman picks up her arm and looks at me hard. Not me, I say, thinking I'll break your bloody arm if you as much as suggest that again. I tell her about the men, leaving out all the killing, though her eyes are roving over the blood on my armour – the third one spilt plenty. She gets me to hoist Sansa up to get her dress taken off, and I'm looking everywhere but at her. Heweg! she yells, loud enough to wake the Others, not that Sansa as much as blinks. I say, I don't know if – and I can't fucking say it, and she doesn't understand for a moment until I look at my feet and then she says alright, out you go, I'll have a good look at her, and damned near pushes me out of the door. Her man comes in with a bucket of water, just gives me a nod and a smile, calm, as if to say we'll see you right.
I pace outside. Those fucking cunts. They had their hands on her. Had her on the ground. Who were they? Mummers? Bandits? We're not all that far from Harrenhall now, and Gregor. If they're anything to do with him, or a search party – I don't know if they knew her face. Didn't stop to ask. Well, let them fucking come. I'll fucking take them all if I have to die trying. There's a hen at my feet, feathers golden red, and I don't know whether to kick it or bury my face in it. Gods, can't stand waiting.
The woman's just pulling a smock over Sansa's legs - I see her thighs, her knees. As long and pale as new candles. She bids me come to the bed, rolls Sansa to me a bit so she can cover her with the bedclothes. She's as cold as anything now, river mud. Hells. I can feel her bones under my fingers. The woman tucks her in, says says she's not been touched, and I nod, feeling like all my breath's dropped down to my gut. I say what do you think's wrong and she says a fever, and the shock of that, jerking her head at Sansa's wrist. Her man – Heweg, it was – has come back in with a pile of rags and a handful of young sticks, willow maybe. I watch her clean up the wrist. There's not much blood, but you can just see the bone – her fucking bone – and it makes me want to put my fist through the window. She soaks the rags and uses two of the sticks and wraps her up. Sansa's not moved. How bad is it? I ask and the woman shakes her head, says we'll just wait and see, and they go out of the room for a bit.
I stand looking at her. My little bird. Not yours, dog. Her lips are just apart, like she's about to whistle, head to the side. Hair spread out all over the damned place. I've never felt so fucking helpless. I crash into the chair in the corner, and pick up her dress and her smock. It's like I'm holding her in my hands, she's falling between my fingers, I'm breathing her in. They smell of hay and mud and sweat and meadowflowers. Gods, don't bloody die on me, Sansa.