She had the dream, again. The one she'd been avoiding: a word written in blood on snow, and a forest that seemed cloaked in incense. Incense, of all things. Heavy and fragrant, it left her head muddled when she woke. Even after they'd saddled up and left town, Buffy was still feeling out of sorts. She should never have given in to the temptation of sleep. But at least her side had closed over, however red and tender it still seemed to be. It was now hidden under Podrick's borrowed clothing.

The Slayer could already tell that the mercenaries were not fooled. And why would they be? A woman had walked into the room; they expected a woman to walk out. But Tyrion's promise of riches must have been a believable one, because they didn't say a word to her.

One hand sat against the saddle's pommel, while the other tried clumsily to tug at the reins and pull her horse nearer to Tyrion's. "Upon you, you mean."