The other two laugh, and the howler says, two little snappers down, then. I'd never have thought it, says another. Well, when the big wolves are away, he says. Shouldn't have left a cripple and a kneehigh in charge of the North, should they? – So the Greyjoy boy turned then? one asks. Must've, mustn't he? he says. Been brewing all those years under Ned Stark's thumb. Burnt them to a crisp, it's said. Once an Ironborn, always an Iron – she's still standing, is she? he says suddenly to me as I'm getting up. Ay, just about, I say, turning away, cool as I can. One of them stretches, says, Gods, I need a piss.
How do I tell her? She knows something's up – I got her out of there as quick as I could, the men out of sight, thank fuck – and now we're riding, west for now. I don't know where to. We can't go north now, not to Winterfell, any road. Fuck. I'm about to break her bloody heart.
She's sick, onto her boots. She's gone so pale I could put my hands right through her. And she cries, of course she does. Her brothers are dead. I see Fira again, reciting rhymes and stamping in the mud. Her wet hair clinging her like grass snakes. Me shouting at the maids as they cleared her room.
Sansa hardly speaks for the rest of the day and the night, just hanging onto me like I'm a branch over a cliff-edge. I can feel her thoughts draining out of her. Bloodless.
We're heading to the Riverlands, her brother's armies. Into the bloody Young Wolf's jaws. It's like I've bad wine sloshing around in my gut. Having to ride through a load of bloody North-pledging bannermen, who'll not be taking kindly to me. Well, that's my part in all this, just a fucking carthorse, delivering her to them and then – Gods, if they don't bloody string me up first – fucking the hells off. I put my nose in her hair, thinking, I'll not have your smell of pines and maples much longer, my heart like a millstone.
Next day, and her eyes are like jewels that need scrubbing. She looks so bloody tired, shoulders tucked into herself like a crone's. There's a small camp up ahead, a few men and no hiding from it, so I think fuck it, let's find out what's happening. I'll take them all if I have to.
I leave Sansa with Stranger and stalk over to them. Orange sigil, bull moose. Hornwoods. A pot over a fire, smoking. It's the Hound, whispers one, not quietly enough, and their hands go to their hilts. Ay, it is, I say, still walking, and I could kill you all right now, but I'm not looking for trouble. I've got Sansa Stark with me, I'm looking to get her to your Young Wolf. They frown, look over my shoulder.
She's at King's Landing, isn't she? says one. I got her out of there before they killed her, I say. She is a redhead, says one to the others, out of the side of his mouth. How do we know you're not kidnapping her, keeping her for yourself? another says. I can't help snorting. If I was doing that, you think I'd be up here risking my fucking neck and not with her legs wrapped around me in Braavos? Where's your man? They're mute. Look, you can fucking tail us if you have to, I say, impatient. They glance at each other. We can't, says one, under his breath. We've got to get back up for the funeral. He's a day west, says another, jerking his neck. Follow the river.