It had been late in the night when he went back.
He'd packed his horse in the shadow of the lane as the swarms ran about him; he and the horse were tall above the sea and he didn't notice it. He was drunk and so the horse was hard to pack, it was whirling around him and the bags kept sliding off. He bent down one time too many and lost the wine before he realized it was happening, and retched, and laughed through the retching at the terrible indignity to the horse. When he was done he leaned with his brow at its cold sweat-lathered neck and, laughing, asked it to forgive him. Then it was easier and the bags were on and he was finished and his head was clearer–and so, at that moment, the terrible weight of what he'd lost fell upon him. Everything at once upon him, all that he'd done and all that he'd lost, and he stood with his palm on the bloodsoaked cantle and shut his eyes in the dark.
There was a nagging thought that haunted him always after war; all this confusion, what if I've died and no one noticed and this is all I get. Somehow, though, the thought of being dead had now become preferable. But he knew he wasn't dead–he was breathing and the broken ribs hurt, the whole of him hurt; he was wretched, but he was alive.
He leaned for some time with his brow against the patient horse, eyes unfocused, and then led it back to the stable. Then he staggered slow back through the lane, through the screaming clatter, through the gate, pushing men over and out of his way to the stair.
Three stairs, fifteen, and the wall came down and hit him hard in the shoulder. He sat to wait until the writhing pathway of stairs righted itself, and was up again. Then there was the door, and then the green room with the small thing curled tight under his cloak. He held his hand out for it, falling, and just as it faltered, just as he was going to reach down and grab after it, the cold white hand was in his.
She looked up at him. It was very clear, now, the thing he was doing–different from what I tried before, and the same. She said in her bell voice, "I won't go with you, I have to wait. Ser Dontos is taking me because you can't; there's a ship…" He blinked at her, and laughed at the cruelty of it all, and watched her face go blank. How to explain to her the truth of her ship? A net sailing into a net; with Cersei as the gleaming figurehead, molten-gold hair whipping the wind, back safe to the same harbor in a laughing loop.
The bag in his hand was, at last, under his control. The things in her chest were ridiculous, but at the bottom was a sturdier layer, likely the dresses she was ashamed of; wools grey and green and brown. Roaring loud in his head was that familiar war-song that sung along with the strain–you don't need to think; only need to do it. He turned and looked at her, and she looked at him.
How was it that she knew him well, or was it only that she was growing older? In any case, she almost made it to the door in two leaping bounds before he caught her–a box of feathers, surprising how light–and then she was snarling in his grip, biting through his palm. He gagged her quick and bound the hard little ankles. Her chin was smeared in his blood, her eyes, dark with incrimination, never left his face as he caught her wrists. It was with relief that he slid the bag over her.