The Riverlands were sick with rot.

Even the trees had started to look like they were watching.

The wagon rocked gently as it trundled through black mud and the fog that clung too close to the ground. The others in the convoy had grown quiet—those who were still left. There had been seventeen of you when you left Maidenpool, posing as cobblers and farmers and newlyweds. Now there were nine.

You sat cross-legged in the narrow space of your wagon, the rich smell of roasted rabbit clinging to your sarong. Sandor had killed it two days ago with a stone to the skull. You’d seasoned it with crushed juniper berries. You couldn’t enjoy it anymore—not after seeing what was done to baby Leitha.

The mother still wailed at night, even though her tongue was gone.

“She’s close,” you muttered, tracing the rim of a wooden cup filled with one of your tonics. “I can feel it. The bones won’t settle. And there’s oil in the air.”

Sandor, sitting hunched by the open wagon flap, didn’t answer. He had cleaned his sword four times that night already. The wetstone rasped slowly against the blade. He stared out into the mist, unmoving.

You watched the muscles in his back shift beneath his worn leather. His burned cheek twitched.

“You’re thinking of riding off on your own,” you said softly. “Aren’t you?”

“I’m thinking,” he growled, “that we should’ve left this flock of fools behind days ago.”

You reached over, placing a hand on his shoulder. Warm. Solid. A touch he still flinched at—but less than before.

“We leave, she follows. She’s hungry. She likes when there’s a crowd. Screams echo longer.”

He didn’t answer. Just slid the blade back into its scabbard with a harsh hiss. You could feel his anger under your hand, simmering like coals. Not at you. At the world. At himself. At the old gods and new who allowed monsters to wear women’s skin.

That night, you sleep in your little wagon in his lap as he held you tight - the both of you taking turns, lightly sleeping but keeping an eye out.