Sansa watched the fire dance through half-lidded eyes as she lay curled in her bedroll. She was warm. Brienne had insisted upon giving up her sleeping mat to Sansa, and had provided her with a fur-lined cloak. The flames were built higher than the Hound had ever allowed them to be, and despite the smell of frost in the air she was protected from the chill of the night.

And yet she could not sleep. She did not trust the big woman. Why had she paid Lem and Tom so highly for Sansa, only to take her to the Eyrie herself? Why did she claim to be acting upon the orders of her dead mother? And why did the Lannister squire accompany her, if she had sworn fealty to a Stark?

Sansa rubbed her tired eyes. She couldn't be sure where they were, but Brienne had claimed that the great fork of the Trident lay a day and a half's ride away, flooded on all sides by the constant, driving rains and too swampish to cross. They would have to bear west to the thinner, calmer waters tailing off from the Red Fork, and from there cross and loop round to the mountainous North side of the Vale of Arryn. That would take weeks, Sansa knew, and they would be riding into the snow. Not for the first time, she wondered if she would ever reach the Eyrie.

In the cool of the night, the great trees creaked. Pod snuffled in his sleep behind her. Suddenly agitated by restlessness, Sansa threw off her covers and, huddling her cloak around her, crouched at the fire, thoughtfully picking up twigs to burn in its blaze as her eyes glazed over in deep thought.

It was not fear, or even the overwhelming, empty grief that lived in the pit of her stomach that overcame her now. It was pure frustration. She had been passed like a pet from owner to owner, never controlling her own fate, denied the smallest level of independence. She should have been in Winterfell, the ruler of the North, with armies of men loyal to her. Instead, she was not allowed to make water without being watched. She had not even been able to bury her family, let alone avenge them. And now she was to go back to a castle which was not her own and live at the convenience of a stranger whose position was inferior to her's, and soon enough she would be married off and bred for lordlings. Sansa drove a blackened stick angrily into the mud.

"Seven hells," she whispered experimentally into the darkness. The sound of it gave her a tiny sense of satisfaction.

The next morning Brienne awoke to find that Sansa had covered the remains of the fire as best she could, watered the horses and packed her bedroll away. She raised an eyebrow without making comment, and turned away to rouse Podrick.

The days passed in uneasy quiet. Sansa and Brienne were both sharply aware that as they passed the Inn of the Kneeling Man and later Fairmarket, the danger was close and keen and snapping at their heels. When food was scarce Brienne would dart in and out of sparsely populated villages stinking of desperation, and pay well over the odds for hard bread and half-rotten fruit. Sansa fought the urge to dig her knees into her mare whenever she sensed men nearby, and would exchange concerned glances with Brienne. In the evenings, she would gather firewood and point out birds' nests to Podrick. Brienne would turn their food on a spit or sharpen her sword gravely. Slowly, the three fell into a comfortable silence. Podrick seemed too frightened to speak. Brienne seemed too preoccupied. And Sansa was simply grateful for the opportunity to grieve in the quiet. If Brienne had news of King's Landing, or the War, or the North, she kept it to herself, and for that too Sansa was grateful. As long as they remained under the shelter of the wood, silent and neutral and comforting, Sansa could pretend that she would never have to return to her real life, with its betrayals and hurts. Her days were simple and empty, and the three spent their hours existing alongside one another without ever really sharing them.

Sansa had grown so used to the mundanity of their routine that she was taken aback when Brienne sat close by her one evening and spoke in a tense, hushed tone, bowing her straw-coloured head to Sansa's red one.

"My Lady, you may have noticed that our course has altered. I think we're being tracked. I- I should have noticed earlier, but we had been alone for so long - and the worst of the danger was behind us - the fault is mine."

Sansa chewed her lip. "The Mountain?"

"No, My Lady. I believe he has been recalled to King's Landing. Likely it is outlaws, or some scout who does not know who he is following."
"Not Freys?"

"Not in this land, no. But I do not want to lead them to suspect their prey is worth their trouble by continuing towards the Eyrie. I think it's best to make instead for Oldstones."

The familiar feeling of helplessness rose up in Sansa's chest. She was tired of running away, fluttering like a little bird from branch to branch. With a sick sensation in her throat she wished she was with the Hound. He was not afraid, he would kill anyone who tried to hurt her. He did not let frightened little boys accompany him. The ache in her belly twisted.

Sansa simply nodded, and turned back to the fire. Brienne said quietly to Podrick that she would take the first watch, and moved further into the clearing, placing her sword across her knees as she sat stoically in the dark.

That night, when the soft snapping noises of nature woke her suddenly, Sansa clenched her cold fist under her cloak and wished there was a dagger inside it.